The Story
by Mingsmommy
Summary: David Rossi is getting mysterious postcards in the mail. Spoilers for Lauren and in to Season 7. Written for Smacky30 for her winning bid in a fandom charity auction.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** A long, long, LONG time ago, smacky30 won me in a fandom charity auction. I can't remember which one...it's been so long it may have been _Help Pompei_ or _Stop Atlantis From Sinking _or something. She gave me a gorgeous prompt: Prentiss/Rossi and Brandi Carlile's _The Story_. I have just been suffering from horrendous writer's block. I suck, she's wonderful and this story is nowhere near good enough for her, but she's going to roast me on a stick if I don't post something for her soon.

This would never have seen the light of day if it weren't for microgirl8225 and wojelah. They are wonderful women, amazing cheerleaders and superlative betas. Though all mistakes are mine.

* * *

><p>The first postcard arrives two months after Emily's funeral.<p>

He gets home just as the postman drops the mail in the box by the door. Not that he usually sees his house in daylight on a weekday, but today's a special occasion since Erin Strauss had sent him home early, suspended for a week, the result of some particularly colorful and creative insubordination on his part.

He doesn't give a flying fuck.

His file already has several notes of censure and a few official reprimands in it to go along with all of the commendations. And it's not like he's going to miss a week's pay anyway. All he uses his money for these days is buying ridiculously expensive Scotch and he's got enough money in the bank to keep himself in Johnny Walker Blue for the rest of his life. And at the rate he's been knocking it back lately, that's saying quite a bit about the health of his bank accounts.

He grabs the envelopes and flyers out of the mailbox and drops them on the table beside his favorite chair before going to pour himself a drink. Self-imposed rules about waiting until after five and two drink limits on weekdays have fallen by the wayside since JJ walked into the hospital waiting room in Boston. He's sober on the job and the rest of the time he drinks as much as he can, as fast as he can. It doesn't stop the pain but it's the only way he knows to shut his brain up. The only way he knows how to sleep anymore is to pass out. And even that doesn't stop the dreams.

Now, he has a week to stay completely pickled with no one to ask him if he wants to talk or give him mournful looks as if he's somehow less entitled to his grief than they are to theirs.

Fuck that.

_Maybe,_ he thinks as he drops two ice cubes in to the glass, _it's time to retire again_.

But the thought of all of that _time_ stretching out in front of him makes terror blossom in the middle of his chest and he pushes the thought away as the Scotch slides down over the ice.

The first drink is more like a gulp and brings a bit of relief. Not that he can feel the effects yet, but with the smoky tendrils hitting his tongue he knows he's on his way to being able to pass out. He closes his eyes and savors it, not the taste of oak and peat, but the idea he doesn't have to be responsible or civil or conscious any more today.

For a minute, he just breathes and allows himself the comfort.

His second taste is more of a sip, more appropriate to the age and quality of the Scotch. He sighs, relaxes in to his chair and picks up the mail with his free hand. There's not a lot; his fan mail goes to his post office box and he gets most of his bills by e-mail these days. There's a reminder about his annual check-up from his dentist, a thank you note from his niece for her birthday check, and a menu from the new Thai takeout place around the corner.

Then there's a postcard.

It's a glossy picture of the Roman Colosseum at night, a typical tourist postcard from the Eternal City. He flips the card over and sees his name and address printed in careful block letters and an Italian postmark.

That's all.

_She's alive_.

It's not the first time the thought has occurred to him.

The first time was the night she died. Because JJ didn't say Emily was dead; she said, "She never made it off the table." And Emily had faked her own death before; well, she'd faked Lauren Reynolds' death. She was in danger as long as Ian Doyle was alive, but more than that she thought they...the team...was in danger.

But then he knew all of the stages of grief and there was a reason denial was at the top of the list.

He sets the drink on the table and despite the daylight streaming in through the windows, clicks on the lamp. Almost wishing he had a pair of gloves, he examines the card under the warm yellow light. No trace of writing other than the precisely lettered address. The Italian postmark is slightly smeared, but there was nothing else on the back other than a short description of the Colosseum in English in tiny print at the bottom of the card. He angles the photo side of the card under the light, slowly tilting it one way, then the other, hoping to discern any print or substance trace, but there's nothing. Bringing the card to his face, he rests the heavy paper under his nose and inhales deeply, but, again, nothing.

Momentarily abandoning his chair and the Scotch, he moves to his office where he has a magnifying lamp. Carefully holding the postcard at the corners he tilts it under the light, but there's nothing more than he'd seen with the naked eye and the table lamp. Satisfied he hasn't missed anything else, he moves the card so the writing is under the magnifier. He's sure a handwriting expert could see things he doesn't, but he studies it anyway, seeing only plain block letters, obviously lettered to be as nondescript as possible. He doesn't note any excessive pressure at the start or stop of any of the letters. No telltale marks or loops. A perfectly anonymous postcard of the Roman Colosseum sent from Italy.

_"Vatican City and St. Peter's?"_

_His fingers slid down her arm. "Of course."_

_"The Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps?" Emily's voice was low and just a little breathy._

_Dave snorted, fingers slowly and lightly coming back up her arm. "The first day we were there." He could feel her body starting to tense a little. but in a very good way; he loved the way she responded to every touch._

_"Really?" Sliding one of her smooth legs over his hair roughened one, she pressed herself closer to his side. "Most people either do the Vatican or the Colosseum the first day; depending on their devotion to church or history."_

_"Never made it to the Colosseum," he said, fighting the urge to close his eyes as her thigh brushed against him._

_"What?" Emily rolled completely atop him, sounding completely horrified, but feeling very, very wonderful. "How do you go to Rome and not see the Colosseum?" She sounded both affronted and indignant and he couldn't help the smile that lifted his lips as he shrugged._

_"Third honeymoon, remember?" The tales of his marriages were slowly being revealed, though he wasn't sure why. They'd agreed to no strings, so it wasn't really a relationship, but somehow it was more than friends with benefits. "I wasn't in charge of the itinerary; my job was to pay for things and carry packages of ridiculously priced shoes."_

_"But you were in __**Rome**__." She sat up, straddling him "And...and you're __**Italian**__. Don't tell me you didn't want to see the Colosseum?"_

_His attention, at this point, was far more focused on her breasts than the memories of the first weeks of the most miserable of his marriages. "I always planned to go back." He reached up and brushed his thumb across her nipple, watching the flesh pebble. "I promise," he said, grabbing her hips and shifting in to a sitting position, "to make the Colosseum my first stop."_

_"You'd better." He thought her voice was supposed to have some threat to it, but it faded into a moan when his tongue swiped across her nipple, just before he sucked it in to his mouth._

_"If you want," he offered when he moved his mouth to the pleasant task of placing small kisses against her chest and the tops of her breasts. "you can give me some positive reinforcement, so I don't forget..."_

_"Excellent, idea," she agreed, grinding down against him_.

The memory overwhelms him; how husky her voice had been, how wet she was when he was inside her, how her hair had brushed against the arm he'd clasped across her back when she arched and rode him to orgasm. The salty taste of the skin between her breasts, the smell of her perfume mixed with the musky smell of sex. He's half hard thinking about it now, and that's the first time he's felt any arousal in months.

No one knew they'd been lovers, if that was, in fact, what they'd been. He's never been very good at defining things without fucking it up or hurting someone; for once it had actually seemed easy to just enjoy something without labels or expectations. They trusted each other, they talked to each other, they fucked each other and he didn't know until she was gone how much it had meant to him.

Briefly, he thinks about going upstairs and coaxing his semi-erection to a full erection and jacking off but there's still the puzzle of the card and, if he's honest, he's afraid half erect will turn in to fully flaccid by the time he gets to the lube. Better to be encouraged by a little wood, than find out he's never going to have an orgasm again.

He thinks about taking the card in to work, turning it over to the labs, but...no. It's a single postcard. He knows what he's thinking, he knows what he's hoping and he knows they'll all think he's lost his mind. If he's honest, there's a part of him that that thinks he just might have. He's not a fool; he knows there's a possibility the card could be from Ian Doyle, trying to rattle the team, trying to draw someone out who might know where Declan is. The choice of a postcard from the Colosseum could be a coincidence, but it seems unlikely.

Dave sits for a long time with the postcard delicately balanced between his fingers. When he finally decides to go back to his Scotch, he carries the card with him. For the first time since Emily's funeral, he goes to sleep instead of passing out.

Almost three weeks later, after he drags his sorry ass home at 3 am after 6 days in rural Kentucky chasing a serial rapist, he goes straight for the Scotch. The bottle is in his hand and the _tink_ of two small ice cubes hitting the crystal tumbler haven't faded completely when he spots the corner of the postcard peeking out from the pile of mail where his housekeeper had left it on the table by the bar. Setting the bottle on the bar, he moves to the stack of envelopes and slides the postcard out by the corner.

The photo side of the card shows sun drenched hills rolling down to a village along the edges of the bluest water imaginable; the description says the picturesque town is Bagni di Lucca, located in the Tuscan region of Italy.

_"Didn't you ever come close to getting married?"_

_She snorted and he felt the movement of the air against his bare chest. "Don't you think you've done that enough for both of us?"_

_"Oh, you are hilarious, Prentiss." Despite his dry tone, he continued to trace small circles on her back, enjoying the softness of her skin and the soothing rhythm. He felt her smile against his skin, but she didn't respond._

_They lay quietly for a while and when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and almost, for Emily at least, hesitant. "Dave, did you ever..."_

_He waits, fingers moving against the skin of her back, soft enough to soothe, but not so light as to tickle as the silence creeps in and stretches, tightening the moment between them. He was almost expecting her to say something like, "Never mind," but after sometime, she cleared her throat and asked in a rush, "Did you ever fall for a bad guy?"_

_Squeezing her, he laughed teasingly, but gently. "Considering most of the bad guys are __**guys**__, no, I haven't." He placed a kiss atop her head. "But I see how it could happen."_

_Emily shifted against him, looking up at him through her touseled hair. "Really?" She sounded surprised, whether it's from his lack of censure or his acceptance, he doesn't know._

_"Sure," he said, his voice a combination of soft and matter-of-fact. "Part of our job is understanding." He shrugged and pulled her a little closer. "Empathy is natural. If you have a guy with some good qualities, it's not too far of a stretch."_

_It was quiet between them again, but he was deliberate in his silence, in his stillness. He breathed easily, deliberately generating feelings of peace and acceptance, not letting any tension creep in to his body or his breath. When she finally spoke, it was a relief._

_"After 9/11 I was loaned out to the CIA for a special task force in conjunction with Interpol." She rubbed her cheek against him. "Quite the nightmare of interagency cooperation."_

_Dave gave a little laugh. "I doubt it would happen today, but yeah, that makes sense considering the atmosphere at the time."_

_"Yeah." Her finger traced a lines across his chest. "I was under cover." He heard her swallow. "Deep cover."_

_He nodded in understanding; nobody talks about it, but everybody knows it happens. You can't get close to someone without getting __**close**__ to someone. He knew plenty of agents that had to make hard moral choices to keep their cover intact. And the higher-ups of other agencies were fairly notorious for sending their people in with the expectation of moral lines being blurred. "It happens."_

_"There were days at a time I would forget I wasn't who I was pretending to be. I'd forget I was __**me**__." Emily shifted in his arms, pressing closer. "He was...sweet and romantic. Smart, funny."_

_His arm tightened around her. "Had to be hard."_

_Emily took a shaky breath. "It, actually, wasn't. It was so easy to be with him, to be part of that life. The hard part was taking him down."_

_He didn't know what to say that would offer her any appreciable amount of comfort. "You did your job, Emily. It's what they put you there to do."_

_"I..." She swallowed. "I didn't want...I offered to get him out, but he wasn't interested."_

_Sadly, Dave feels a slight sting in the middle of his chest. Bad guy or not, he must have been a hell of a man to make Emily Prentiss risk her cover and her mission like that. "When they get to the level where they attract the attention of the CIA and Interpol? They are true believers, Em. There's nothing you could have done or said." Given all that's been said about her ability to compartmentalize, he wasn't really surprised by the story; though he did find himself feeling sympathy for the choices she had to make._

_Shifting against him, she sighed, then gave a slightly strained laugh. "At least I got to go back to Italy." It was a non sequitur and a bumpy one, but he also understood her need to back away from the truth, ugly as it was; so, he helped her out._

_"International man of mystery, huh?"_

_She laughed again, this time a real one. "International man of missiles, more like."_

_Dave made a noise of agreement. "Gun runners do tend to be world travelers."_

_The tension was seeping from her body and he wondered if she had felt some compulsion to let him know she had had an affair with someone she had set out to bring down. It made sense; not that he was going to match her lover for lover, but considering their positions, she probably needed to make sure it wasn't a deal breaker._

_Lithe and loose, she stretched and settled against him. "I appreciated it more as an adult."_

_"Rome?"_

_"Mmmm." She buried her nose against him and inhaled. "Tuscany. He had a villa outside this little town." She yawned widely. "Famous for thermal baths during the Roman empire." She yawned again, her voice fading with every word. "He had a French gardener..."_

_"The gun business does pay well." His voice was soft and his hands were gentle against her skin._

_She slept._

He feels his heart thumping in his chest as he hurries to his office and powers up his computer.

From the minute JJ had said CIA, he'd known who had Emily on the run; he might not have known a name, but he knew the who. Even though she'd first mentioned Doyle when he'd asked if she'd ever come close to marriage, he'd still been surprised by the gimmal rings. He'd even wondered, very briefly, if she was running from Doyle or to him. Maybe, if it hadn't been for Doyle believing his son was dead, maybe he would have taken Lauren back in exchange for Emily's team, Emily's family, being safe.

But when he'd watched the video from the bar and seen Doyle shoot her, Dave felt like he was the one taking bullets to the chest before he'd realized she had to be wearing a vest. The part about Declan had been a surprise; though knowing Emily it shouldn't have been.

Typing his password, he thinks about all the shoot outs and hostage situations he's been in over the years and he doesn't think his pulse has ever been this high. He feels the adrenaline zinging through his blood stream and his browser will not open fast enough.

When he finally gets his cursor in to the search box he makes himself type slowly for accuracy, then he hits enter.

Google returns over a million results. He scrolls past the map and the images and hits enter at the first entry, courtesy of Wikipedia.

_Bagni di Lucca is a commune of Tuscany, Italy, in the Province of Lucca with a population of c. 6,500._

_Bagni di Lucca was known for its thermal springs since the Etruscan and Roman Ages_.

He smiles. Genuinely. Without hesitation or reservation.

_She's alive_.

Rome, okay. Millions of people travel to Rome every year and the Colosseum is one of the most famous landmarks in the world. That really could be a coincidence. But this? This has to be Emily. Even if Doyle was playing with him, how would he know Emily had told him anything about the villa in Tuscany? How would he know Dave would know to associate Bagni di Lucca with Emily?

Then he remembers the Tuscan villa was where Doyle was arrested. That was the last place Ian Doyle saw Lauren Reynolds.

_Fuck._

He rubs his hands across over his face. He wants to figure it out, he wants to be smarter than to fall in to a trap set by Ian Doyle, he wants Emily to be alive but he's just _so fucking tired_ and none of it makes sense.

Ian Doyle is a smart man; that's part of the reason he's so dangerous. The main reason he was able to get to Emily was her desire to keep the team safe and safe means in the dark. If they'd been ignorant of Lauren Reynolds, then they were certainly ignorant of the fate of Declan Doyle.

There's a part of him that's tempted to ask the rest of them, Morgan and Reid and Garcia if they've gotten any mysterious postcards. But he knows he won't. If he asks them, then they'll ask him. If they have, then chances are it's Doyle. If they haven't, they're going to think he's lost his mind. Besides, then he'd have to ask Hotch and if he suspects Hotch is covering the fact that Emily is alive, well...best not to think about that.

If it's Doyle, he'll out himself in some other way soon enough. If it isn't Doyle, then the question is who is it? Who could it be? And why were they doing this?

He doesn't have a clue and he's not likely to get one tonight...well, this morning.

Shaking his head at himself, he sheds his jacket and throws it over the desk chair. He stumbles upstairs, kicks off his shoes and falls in to bed.

It isn't until he goes to fix himself a drink the next day he finds the Scotch bottle with loosened cap and the tumbler with a measure of water in the equivalent of two melted ice cubes.

He could have had a drink the night before and he hadn't. And that's a first since Boston.

He's aware he's becoming obsessive about the mail.

Mrs. Call, his housekeeper, is starting to give him odd looks when he's home, due, no doubt, to

his insistence that she call him daily with a description of the mail's contents when he's out of town on a case. There is, of course, no way to defend himself or even explain. He does, however, give her a sizeable enough raise that her looks could more easily be interpreted _as My aren't you lovably eccentric?_ rather than _Those monsters you deal with have finally driven you 'round the bend and I hesitate to be in the same room with you._

Not that he really cares what she thinks, but he doesn't want or need her mentioning his peculiar interest in the daily mail to anyone.

When the next one arrives, it's a Saturday and he's just gotten in from coaching Jack's soccer team with Hotch. The address side is up with the same innocuous block lettering. He takes a deep breath and flips the card over. A verdant green rolling hillside is pictured in the foreground, and behind it, an overwhelming and breathtaking group of mountain peaks, white snow and gray stone overtaking the sky. Beneath the image, in curling print, the words: Mont Blanc, France.

_"That may be the sexiest thing I've ever seen." Dave could hear the teasing in his own voice as Emily passed the cigar back to him, though he wasn't completely exaggerating. The night was warm but the full heat of summer hadn't hit yet, nor had the mosquitoes begun visiting yet and they'd decided to spend some time after dinner on the deck._

_She opened her mouth and let the smoke curl out around her head in a blue-gray haze. "You say that now, but you're the one that will have to smell my smoky hair in bed tonight."_

_"Come here." Carefully placing the cigar in the ashtray on the table beside him, he tugged her down in to the lounge chair with him. "Let me smell it now." He widened his legs a little to allow her to nestle against him._

_Laughing, she leaned back and he buried his nose in her hair; it didn't smell like cigar smoke, at least not yet. She smelled of jasmine and honey and something so indefinably Emily he couldn't name it in three lifetimes._

_"Just when I think I've plumbed the depths of all of your talents you show me a few more." He placed a kiss on her shoulder._

_Emily made a dismissive sound. "Smoking a cigar is hardly a talent."_

_"No, but looking sexy while you smoke a cigar? That's a talent." He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of her hair sweeping against his cheek. "If I could get you to go hunting with me, I bet you'd look sexy with a shotgun, too."_

_She snorted. "I have no idea how that could possibly be sexy, but if it turns you on, I'd go hunting with you."_

_"Sure you would, Prentiss." He hugged her to counteract the derision in his tone._

_She leaned back to look at him, giving him a lifted eyebrow. "I would not only go hunting with you, I will dress whatever you manage to shoot."_

_He felt his own eyebrows lift in surprise. "You've gone from sexy to scary."_

_Laughing a little, she managed to brush a kiss against his jaw before turning back and lolling her head against him. "You weren't there when I told the team about my grandfather, were you?"_

_He let his fingers stroke across her stomach. "If I was, I don't remember."_

_"My grandfather," she began smugly, "retired to the French Alps and lived off the land."_

_"And several million dollars."_

_She smacked his thigh lightly. "No, seriously. He had over a hundred acres with this incredible view of Mont Blanc. He had a garden and he foraged and he hunted."_

_"Sure he did." His tone was deliberately skeptical. He did believe her to a certain extent, but it was always fun to yank Emily's chain._

_Prentiss made a frustrated noise and somehow managed to turn around in his lap, knees on either side of him. "I'm not kidding. I used to spend a lot of time at his place. No running water, no electricity. He was the first person to teach me how to handle a gun."_

_Dave grinned up at her, loving the way her cheeks flushed and her mouth pursed. He couldn't resist one last tweak. "Because the handling of weapons is critical at most debutante balls..."_

_One of Emily's eyebrows went up and he saw it dawn on her that he was deliberately provoking her. "Well, SSA Rossi, how many other debutantes do you think know how to shoot, gut and dress a wild boar?"_

_His hands cupped her hips and he savored the feel of her under his palms, the warmth of her skin radiating through her jeans. He smiled as he pulled her down into a kiss. "I have always said you are one of a kind Emily Prentiss." _

This...Mont Blanc...couldn't possibly be a coincidence. Either she was alive or Ian Doyle knew much more than they gave him credit for.

He needs answers, but he has no idea where to go to get them. So, he starts the only place he can think of.

Unlike the first time, the second time David Rossi knocks on Penelope Garcia's door, it's not the middle of the night and he's no longer ignorant of the terrifying and awesome force of nature that is Penelope Garcia. He is, however, just as desperate for her help, though he's learned between visits to her door how to ask nicely.

She answers the door, thankfully fully clothed (bright pink blouse and cerulean blue skirt that touches her neon pink toenails). "Rossi?" She sounds surprised, bordering on alarmed, and he really should learn to call before he shows up at people's homes. "Is everyone..."

He holds up a hand. "Fine, everyone's fine." He shoves his hands in his pockets and channels his inner five year old; he always had a sheepish look that would get him out of any trouble with his mama. It had even worked on a couple of his wives when he remembered to use it instead of trying to yell his way through trouble. Hopefully, he hasn't lost his touch.

Judging from the way Garcia's expression softens, he hasn't. "Are you okay?" she asks.

"I-uh-" He hadn't really thought much past showing up at her door and he's not really sure he knows what to say or how to ask.

The truth, or at least as much of it as won't make him sound like an idiot who has lost his grip on reality, seems to be the place to start. "I need some help."

Her eyebrows go up and she angles her body away from the door in clear invitation. "Is it about a case?"

He's shaking his head as he steps in to her living room. "No. Well, yes, but not really."

There's a soft smile on her face that looks almost amused. "That was clear. If by clear, I mean mud-like in my ability to understand the exact nature of your need for help, oh, Preeminent Profiler."

He takes a breath and lets go of his anxiety. This is Penelope Garcia, one of the most unconventional people he's ever met in thirty years of dealing with people from all walks of life. She is not going to judge him for hoping Emily is still alive; the real danger is she might begin to hope, too, and get her soft heart broken all over again. "I need help," he says quietly and seriously. "But it needs to be off the record and under the radar." He gives her a look and his voice is somewhere between apologetic and stern. "Parts of it...the why...are going to be on a need to know basis. And I'll pay you for your time."

She waves a hand airily. "Pish. You will not. This is what friends do, they help each other out." Flapping her hand towards her sofa, she winks at him. "Tell Auntie Penelope what you need."

The way she's speaking is entirely silly and bordering, just a little, on inappropriate and it's exactly what he needs to relax enough to tell her. "Ian Doyle." Garcia's eyes widen and her lower lip trembles just a little and Dave curses himself for spitting it out so baldly. "I know we've been told to...not to pursue it, to leave it to the CIA and Interpol to find him, but I need to know..." _What?_ he thinks to himself. _That he's not the one currently sending me anonymous postcards from across Europe? That he didn't know Emily and I were sleeping together? That he hasn't targeted the team to try to find out where Declan is?_

Garcia, bless her, doesn't seem to need to know what he needs or why he needs to know it, since she's already reaching for the laptop resting on the coffee table in front of her. "Off the record and under the radar, right?" She presses a few keys and Ian Doyle's face fills the computer screen. "What is it they say? Always follow the money."

Dave is only half listening as he studies the arrogant tilt of Doyle's mouth and thinks about his lips pressing against the base of Emily's throat. Did Lauren Reynolds give the same sigh for Ian Doyle that Dave loved to draw out of Emily? Did Lauren gasp or squawk when Doyle rubbed his beard against the sensitive skin beneath her breasts the way Emily did when Dave did the same? Was he playful with her? Or was he as intense in bed as he was at torture?

Garcia continues clicking, words spilling out of her as she does so, as if she's been waiting to give this report for months. She probably has. "When they took him down in Italy, they froze his bank accounts, of course. Thing is, he had less than ten thousand dollars spread over three separate bank accounts. Not even enough for the monthly upkeep on a house in Boston, an apartment in London and a Tuscan villa." She types furiously for a moment and numbers flow across the screen like water coursing over rocks. "Turns out none of the residences were in his name. So, we can assume he was adept at hiding his money.

"So, you then have to ask yourself, who would an international arms dealer trust enough to hold his money? The answer to that is simple: nobody." Her fingers are flying over the keys and window after window begins popping up, all of them containing numbers in various groupings, some obviously representing dollar amounts, others identifiers or account numbers. "But these days you don't have to trust anybody. All you need is a computer and the internet and any run of the mill international gun runner has access to international banking." A black screen pops up over all the other windows, and numbers begin appearing as though being typed out by an old fashioned tele-type machine. "The two biggest culprits for...well, culprits, to hide their ill-gotten gains are of course, the ever so traditional and conservative, Swiss banking system and the Johnny-come-lately to financial finagling less venerable but equally as sneaky, Cayman Islands."

Garcia grabs for a purple fuzzy pen, as far as he can tell for the express purpose of being able to wave it around wildly as she spews forth information. "Plus, I'm sure he has a few aliases with banks all across Europe, but those would just be, relatively speaking, small potatoes. After-" She takes the first breath he's seen since she first started and she swallows; when she speaks again, it's slower and a little more solemn. "After Emily's funeral...I know they said not to do anything, not to try to track him...but I couldn't just, not, you know?" The look she gives him is wide-eyed and wounded. "I know I can't catch him. And I wouldn't send the team out after him, but...what if...what if he decided Emily had told Hotch or JJ about Declan? Or Reid could figure it out by profiling her? Or she told Morgan while she was on the floor of that warehouse?"

Dave's not sure why she's trying to convince him she hasn't gone against the specific orders Hotch had given them when she so clearly has. Or maybe it's the why of it that has he leaning forward earnestly, hands shaking and mouth defiant. When he looks closely, he sees the pain and loss in her face; then he realizes he doesn't have to look closely at all. It hits him then that he's been selfish, that he's been so wrapped up in his own grief, in his own pain and anger he's let the rest of them grieve without him.

Penelope's eyes are wet and wide and he knows she's trying not to cry. "What if he decides one of you knows something and he decides to come after one of the team?"

These are the same fears he's had despite his logical arguments with himself that Doyle would know the team had been clueless about Declan's existence. The truth is, as little sense as it makes that Ian Doyle would try to hurt the team, it makes even less sense that Emily is somehow alive and sending him postcards from Europe.

But Penelope Garcia has had too many losses in her life and if she needs to watch over them in her own way, he's not going to be the one to rob her of it. Dave reaches out, touching her arm and gives her a small nod.

Garcia sucks in a breath and gives him a shaky smile. "So, I used the intel JJ had given us and traced accounts from the major banks in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands for ones that had been quiet but had activity after his escape from prison."

He feels his brows knit. "You're talking about hacking the Swiss banking system? Those are untraceable."

Cocking an eyebrow at him, she gives his a _you dare doubt me?_ look. "For mere mortals, I'm sure they are."

He can't help it; he laughs.

It sounds odd and rusty and almost painful even to his own ears. But it is a laugh, of sorts. The last time he can remember laughing was wrapped around Emily, lips against her neck, nose buried in her hair. He remembers the way his arm had bounced against her chest as she laughed with him. What were they laughing about? He tries to remember, but he can't recall. It's just a bright memory, the sound of her laugh, the feeling of lightness moving through him, that rare and fleeting feeling that life was fun. Had he known then it would be the last laugh he could remember four months later would he have done anything differently? If he'd known he was going to lose her, that she was going to be killed, he damned sure would have done something different.

Just then, his eyes fall on a photograph on the table beside the sofa. In a frame decorated with hearts and glitter, Garcia, JJ and Emily, arms flung around each other, bright eyes and wide smiles, looking just on the edge of laughter, captured forever in a moment of unapologetic joy.

The laugh is gone and in it's place is a hard knot in the middle of his chest. He's blinking rapidly, swallowing hard and while he's never been ashamed to show his emotions, he doesn't want to cry, not right now. Not here in Penelope Garcia's apartment on a Saturday afternoon with the sun streaming in and bouncing off the purple walls. Not looking at Emily's face, her sparkling eyes and beautiful smile.

Garcia follows his line of sight and her expression opens and softens. "She was beautiful, wasn't she?"

"Yeah." His voice is scratchy and a little shaky and he brings the heel of his hand up to press against the knot just above his sternum.

"I..." Garcia starts, stops, then sighs and holds up a hand. She turns and heads toward the refrigerator in the kitchenette. "My parents were hippies, you know?" She opens the refrigerator, pulls out two bottles of beer, then using a slight swing of her hip, she bumps the refrigerator door closed. "So, I've never been too good at following rules." She hands him a bottle, then settles back on to the sofa as she opens the cap on her own. "Instructions I do okay with. Rules? Not so much." Tilting the neck of her bottle toward him in a salute, she smiles.

"Part of your briefing when you came back to the BAU was probably how all of your team members landed at the BAU, so I'm sure I don't have to convince you that while I don't have a lot of use for Big Brother, I have a healthy respect." She takes a sip, watching as he slowly twists the cap off.

"We probably have that in common," he nods as he brings the bottle to his lips.

"That we do, mon frere." Taking another drink, she gives him a look that is half conspiratorial and half assessing.

Then, she gives a half shrug that says _what the Hell?_ with everything but a voice, and she continues her story. "When George Foyet attacked Hotch and we couldn't find him for a few hours, well, I got a little paranoid. You guys are all the family I've got and I wanted to know that you were okay." Her thumb is worrying the corner of the label on the beer bottle and she's not looking at him. "So. You know, it's one of those things...where you sort of try to decide where the line is between protection and invasions of privacy."

He's not sure what this has to do with Emily or Ian Doyle, but he's had enough conversations with Penelope Garcia to know there is a point, even if it takes her awhile to get there. But she's obviously waiting on some sort of feedback from him. "That's not always an easy line to locate," he allows.

Garcia sneaks a look at him from under her lashes, takes a drink from her beer, then says, "All right." Leaning forward, she places her beer on the table in front of her and starts talking. It's at a normal rate of verbal speed at first, but then the flow of words increases in the word per second category and he has to struggle a little to keep up. "After Hotch was attacked I found myself checking the GPS on everyone's phones every night before I went to bed. Not to be nosy! But just to know everyone was safe. I mean, I wasn't tracking patterns about where anybody was. I just needed to see their little light blinking on my screen and know that everybody was safe and still on the grid. But, I am a computer geek, a tech nerd, and the idea of doing something manually when there could be a faster, easier way? Not in my nature. Well, so, _**SO**_, I wrote a program, just for you guys, just for my team, that showed everybody's little blinking red dot. Like I said, not about being nosy or seeing where anybody was spending their evenings. It was just about making sure nobody had been kidnapped and their cellphone tossed in the Potomac." She grabs her beer and takes a gulp.

He's not sure why she's so upset about this or why she thinks he'll be upset. He's aware of the GPS in his phone and the fact that his whereabouts can be tracked at any time. They all know it; it probably happens far more than they're aware of and he's sure it's why Emily had left her phone in her desk drawer. He also knows Penelope Garcia gets enough information overload from her nine to not-so-five job that she does value people's privacy and, if she didn't, she gets enough inside looks on other people's lives she doesn't want more. He's sure her motives are exactly what she says they are; what he doesn't know is why she's telling him. He's trying to be patient, but he's sure the look he gives her doesn't say, "Take your time" as much as it says, "Get to the point."

Nodding, she takes a deep breath and starts talking again. "It wasn't a sophisticated program; any code monkey worth their bananas could have written it. A map that covered the greater metro area and six little red blinkeys for each of you. I didn't even put identifiers on them; as long as there were six of you, it didn't much matter who was where, right?" It seems to be a rhetorical question, since she keeps talking. "I open up the program, count six red dots and then I'm done. It might not mean everyone is safe, but it is a starting point if somebody does go missing." The look she gives him is pained and more than tinged with guilt. "I know it was for my own peace of mind and when it came down to it-" She swallows and her voice drops. "It didn't really matter anyway."

Dave's eyes are burning and his impatience is gone. What does it matter if she ever gets to the point? He's shut himself off from them too long. Aside from the occasional question to Hotch about how he's doing, he's not sure he's done anything to share their grief or let them share his.

Reaching out a hand, he touches Garcia's arm; it's not much, but it's more than he's been able to do for months. It says _I'm sorry_ and _It will be all right_ and _I'm here_.

She takes in a shaky breath and gives him a wobbly smile. "Anyway. One night, not too long after I've written my handy-dandy program to keep track of my profiling peeps, I only have five dots instead of six. Of course I have a miniature flip out because somebody is off the grid. So, I start pinging you, one at a time. I pinged Hotch first because Foyet was still on the loose, then; his little light blinked at me...stoically, of course. Then I pinged Spencer, because goodness knows, trouble seems to have the boy genius on speed dial; but his little light blinks at me. Emily, JJ, Derek and you all blink back at me."

Suddenly, Dave has a thought about where this might be going and it must show on his face, because Miss Penelope Garcia gives him a sassy eyebrow and the trace of a knowing smile. "Well, as you can imagine, I am a bit confused. So, I ping individually again. Then it occurs to me that two dots appear to be in the same location. To confirm I did some quick alterations to my little program and turned your little red dot to a little blue dot. Then, I lit everyone up again. Do you know what happened?"

He does. "You had four red dots and one purple one?"

Clapping her hands beneath her chin, Garcia gives a small squeal. "_Exactly_. Top of the class." She tilts her head. "I made myself calm down and told myself you could be out drinking together or somehow one of you could have ended up with the other's phone. I didn't want to get too excited or make any assumptions. But then-"

"You started seeing the purple dot on a fairly regular basis," he supplies calmly. They had been so careful not to give clues, to not give themselves away to the team. The irony of the tech analyst discovering their secret instead of one of the profilers is not lost on him.

"I never told anyone," she says. "It wasn't anybody's business; it wasn't _my_ business, so I tried not to think about it too much."

Rossi gives her a look.

"I said _tried_," she says somewhat indignantly.

Despite himself, he smiles. "It's okay. We never-well, I never suspected you knew anything. If Emily had any inklings, she kept it to herself."

"I just..." Her eyes are wet again and her lower lip shakes. "I know you miss her. I know you're hurting more than you let anyone know."

He has to swallow against a lump in his throat, but he nods, because underneath the wave of pain is relief that he doesn't have to hide any more, at least in front of one person. "Yeah."

"Finding Doyle isn't going to bring her back, but if knowing where he is helps to keep the rest of you safe? I am all over it." She tilts her beer bottle back and takes a long pull, then sets the nearly empty bottle back on the table. "I know I'm going against direct orders, but I don't care. This is the only weapon I have to make sure everyone is safe and I'm using it."

"I'm not arguing." His tone is gentle. "Do you know where he is?"

"If the money is an accurate GPS, then he's in Alaska." She pulls the laptop close again and taps a few keys. A map pops up with circles and dates on it. "As far as I can tell, he got in to the United States by private jet. Not nearly as easy to get out the same way. Especially after you've killed a federal agent and several other people with government ties."

"I don't know how he got out of Boston, but his next account transfer was in Chicago. Emily was actually posted there before and after her time with Interpol, so I thought he might be looking for Declan there, but it just looked like it was a big city on his way west. Nothing for a couple of weeks, then there was a transfer to a bank in Seattle, then a couple of weeks after that Anchorage." She chews on her lip, briefly. "Alaska is as good of a place as any to go hide out until he can get out of the country. My guess is he'll wait until things are a little quieter, then sail over to Russia; it appears to be a big haven for arms dealers these days."

Rossi raises an eyebrow. "You don't think he'll stay in the States and search for Declan?"

Garcia shakes her head. "He's smart and he's got a lot of resources, but he lost a lot in Boston." Her lips purse. "Not as much as we did, but the loss of so many loyal henchmen didn't do him any good. Also, his forte is torturing information out of people not tracking it down in the less-ouchie way." With her thumb and forefinger, she pushes and holds two keys simultaneously and a window with words and symbols pops up. "My guess is he'll go to professionals to try to track Declan or, you know, track people he can torture to find Declan." Gently she touches the screen and he sees, in the middle of the computer gibberish, Emily's name. "I've got shadow searches out; if anyone searches information on the team, I'll know." Then, she gives him a frankly annoyed look. "Your celebrity makes you a bit of a pain on that score."

"Sorry." And he sincerely is. He doesn't want his fame to be the reason someone slips past Penelope Garcia's guard.

"Eh. I've got a few algorithms in place to counteract your cult figure status." She flicks a hand at him. "And, honestly, at least for right now we're the last ones on his list. I think he knows he's killed the people most likely to know where Declan is."

It's odd to be getting a profile from Penelope Garcia, but if someone is driven by information, then Garcia is the one most likely to understand. "And you're reasonably certain he's in Alaska? Not Europe? Not Italy or France?"

The look she gives him is curious, but she refrains from asking. "If he's not in Alaska, then he's in Russia. It might be easier to cross borders in Europe, but not with the kind of heat he has on him."

Dave feels something loosen in the middle of his chest; the knot he'd felt when he'd seen Emily's face smiling at him from Garcia's coffee table, the knot he'd felt tighten with every step as he'd help carry her coffin to her grave, the knot that's been there since he'd realized she was in trouble. He knows he's probably deluding himself, but he can't seem to care.

"Thank you." His voice is a little scratchy, but she gives him a soft, understanding smile.

"All part of the service," she says and pats his arm.

He stands. "Let me know if he moves, okay?"

Following him to the door, she gives a mock salute. "You'll be my first call."

"Thank you." He gives her a look that can't possibly convey all of the gratitude and relief he feels. "Really, thank you."

"You know, if you ever wanted to talk..." She leaves it hanging.

Leaning forward he places a gentle kiss against her forehead. "You'll be my first call."

She watches him as he moves down the hall and down the stairs. He's almost to the first floor when he hears her door close; he pauses, listening until he hears the _snick_ of the deadbolt, then he moves out of the building and to his car.

He climbs in and sits for a long time, thinking.

While he might be reasonably assured Ian Doyle wasn't personally responsible for the postcards, he doesn't have any more clues to who _is_ sending them. He knows what he hopes, but he also knows it's a foolish hope, bordering on loss-of-touch-with-reality. But then he thinks reality is a bit overrated, especially lately.

Not much of a comfort, but it's enough to keep him going until the next postcard arrives.

He's expecting the usual wait of several weeks, but the next one arrives nine days later.

The card is address side up when he pulls it from his mailbox. When he first sees it, he feels the same rush of excitement that he'd felt with the others, the same giddy, anticipatory burst of energy in his chest, the butterflies in his stomach, the sudden need to catch his breath. Then, he flips the card over and sees an aerial view of the spires of a church and the bold print _Greetings from Savannah, Georgia_.

He blinks.

_That's in the states._

Then, nothing.

He thinks, tries to recall, flicks through his memories like a Vegas dealer flicks through a deck of cards but...nothing. No moment between them comes to the surface, no memory of Emily mentioning Savannah in pillow talk or any other memory.

His excitement has turned to disappointment too quickly; the feeling of a balloon expanding in the middle of his chest has changed to a tightness that wasn't there before, the fluttering in his stomach has soured. He frowns and tells himself to think harder.

Sitting in his chair, he takes a deep breath and makes himself clear his mind and _think_. A thousand different memories roll through his mind, but he honestly can not remember Emily ever mentioning the town of Savannah, Georgia.

He glances at his watch. It's a Tuesday night, barely eight o'clock and Garcia had still been in her lair when he'd left the BAU. So he dials.

"Office of Unlimited Knowledge and Impressive Skill Even for a Goddess, speak to me and cower, mortal."

Dave smiles. Four months ago he probably would have grinned. "Garcia, it's Rossi."

"Hello, o'revered one," Garcia chirps. "How may I serve thee?"

"Off the record and under the radar?" It's a question, but it's a code, too.

He hears something click and a low grade hum on the line and he doesn't know what she's done, but he has the feeling their conversation just got a lot more private.

Her voice is no less energetic, but her tone is much more serious. "I looked today and I found a little more evidence that the subject is still in Alaska."

He feels a little silly, but she's obviously concerned with privacy. "I'm actually looking at the first part of the equation."

"Ah. The red to your blue?" Her query is bright.

"Exactly." He imagines her in her office, gliding from screen to screen, fuzzy capped pens, toys and trolls watching over her genius.

"Give me the deets and I am at your service."

"Could you see if there's any history for Savannah, Georgia?" Then another thought occurs. "If that doesn't turn up anything could you see if the subject has any ties to Savannah?"

"Already in the back of my giant sized brain, my friend. Give me a few and I will call you back." She disconnects without saying goodbye.

It's not until later he realizes he sat still with the phone in his hand until she calls back. But when she calls it's with the news that to the best of her "mind boggling ability" Emily had never been to Savannah, Georgia.

He's almost surprised at how bitter the disappointment is. He'd really thought it was her.

He has a hard time getting to sleep that night and when he does sleep its full of pieces of memory morphed in to twisted dreams of Emily and Ian Doyle and complex, mind boggling reasons why she would send him a postcard from Savannah, Georgia.

Dragging himself to work the next day is a challenge. He feels heavy, his brain foggy, as though he's hung over, when he'd only had a glass and a half of wine. Thankfully all that's required of him is paperwork; considering he's been doing the same paperwork for going on thirty years, it doesn't take a great deal of brainpower.

It's relatively easy to stay at his desk all day, printing out reports from his computer, filling in the narratives by hand and avoid as much human interaction as possible.

"Rough night?" Hotch asks from the door and Dave gives him a weak smile; it feels tight and wrong on his mouth. He feels as if he's shouldering every bad day of the last fifty-five years.

"They all feel rough lately." He's genuinely surprised something so honest comes out of his mouth. It's almost as if the loss of hope makes the grief over Emily's death that much sharper. These past weeks living with the sweet fantasy that she might actually be alive tastes bitter today. That sliver of hope, even though he'd told himself he was a fool the entire time, now must be paid for.

Hotch frowns at him, but it's a look of concern and not censure. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Stabbing his pen back in to its holder, Dave shakes his head in disgust. "Nothing you don't already know."

He expects Aaron's expression to smooth out in understanding; instead, his face draws a little tighter. "Do you need to...I know you know, but the Bureau has plenty of qualified..."

Dave barks out a laugh. "How often did you go to the department shrink when Haley died?"

Very briefly, he sees Hotch's eyes widen and Dave realizes he's tipped his hand. The look is gone as quickly as it came and Hotch's face smoothes to a carefully blank expression as he moves in to Dave's office and, uninvited, sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk. "Not often. The required amount."

Holding up his hands in a gesture that clearly says _I don't want to fight_, Rossi says, "I've had my mandatory session, as well."

Frowning again, Hotch leans forward. "Dave, everyone is grieving." Rossi feels a knot of rage thicken in his throat, making him clench his teeth. Hotch obviously sees the change in expression as he continues. "I'm not minimizing anything you're going through. We all handle things differently." He gives a slight inclination of his head. "We're all close, but it's foolish to think some of us aren't closer."

"I think," Dave says, slowly, "I don't really want to talk about this right now after all."

"Dave," Hotch counters and Dave can hear the helplessness in his voice along with the desire to help and beneath those two emotions, something else...guilt? Fear?

There's a small part of Dave, the part that's mean and nasty and doesn't give a fuck who he hurts, that wants to tell Hotch that he can go, Dave has already fulfilled his session. But Aaron hasn't done anything to deserve that, not really. It's not his fault that Dave is grieving anew.

He sighs and then, he lies. "I'm fine." He waves a hand. "I didn't sleep well last night and I'm a bear today."

There's still concern on Hotch's face but Dave would almost swear he sees a flash of relief. "You're sure?"

Dave nods. "I'm sure."

Hotch stands and even though Dave is expecting a _if you ever need to talk_ speech, he doesn't get one. Aaron hesitates briefly as he moves through the door, then nods and heads to his own office.

Dave isn't quite sure what that means; he thinks about the possibilities as he packs his briefcase, as he makes his way to the parking garage, as he drives home. There's more going on with Hotch than Dave knows. Maybe he knows more about Emily's time with Doyle, maybe more of her undercover work came out after her death, maybe Hotch had his own repressed feelings for Emily. Dave shakes his head at himself. As he'd told Emily once the job means secrets, things they take to the grave with them and in a unit chief's case, there would be more than most.

But all thoughts of Hotch and what secrets he's carrying cease when he sees the postcard resting atop the mail. A stately church rising against an impossibly blue sky with the preprinted script telling him it's the Cathedral of John the Baptist in Savannah, Georgia.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials Garcia, asking her to please check about Savannah again. This time look for any reference, no matter how slight, to the Cathedral of John the Baptist.

But, the results are the same as the night before. No connection. Not to Emily. Not to Doyle. Not even to the Ambassador.

He wants to howl in frustration.

The other postcards all led him back to Emily. Even if this was Doyle baiting him, why would he do this, send him something that has no connection to Emily?

He spends half the night reading about the cathedral and when the next day dawns, he's pretty sure he could give a Reid-worthy lecture on the church's history and architecture, but he's no closer to finding or remembering a connection to Emily Prentiss.

And that's made all the more frustrating when he comes home to another postcard showing the soaring arches of the interior of a church. The small print on the card assures him he is still looking at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, located in Savannah, Georgia.

He's aware it could be a trap. Hell, it probably _is_ a trap; Garcia's wrong and Doyle isn't in Alaska. Somehow he's figured out Emily and Dave were closer than the others and he's drawing Dave out to see if he knows where Declan is.

Dave really can't bring himself to care.

He pulls out his credit card and books himself a ticket for the next day on the first flight out of Dulles to Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating:** FRAO/NC17  
><strong>Parings:<strong> Prentiss/Rossi  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> _Lauren_ and in to Season 7 (some spoilers, but not all because I only know the big one)  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> A long, long, LONG time ago, **smacky30** won me in a fandom charity auction. I can't remember which one...it's been so long it may have been _Help Pompei_ or _Stop Atlantis From Sinking_ or something. She gave me a gorgeous prompt: Prentiss/Rossi and Brandi Carlile's The Story. I have just been suffering from horrendous writer's block. I suck, she's wonderful and this story is nowhere near good enough for her, but she's going to roast me on a stick if I don't post something for her soon.

This would never have seen the light of day if it weren't for **microgirl8225** and **wojelah**. They are wonderful women, amazing cheerleaders and superlative betas. Though all mistakes are mine.

* * *

><p>There's a coffee shop across from the church; he sits at one of the tables outside and watches. The twelve o'clock Mass is in full swing and even from this distance he can hear muted music from the pipe organ. He watches people pass by and tourists disembark from buses while he listens to the slow clop of giant Percherons pulling carriages while their drivers talk about Lafayette Square, the French émigrés who established the first parish at the end of the 18th century and how the spires of the church stretch over 200 feet in to the sky. He's just another tourist, admiring the cathedral, enjoying the sun and an espresso; if he's sitting with his back against the coffee shop and his eyes move over every person that approaches the church, nobody seems to notice.<p>

The doors are thrown open and people, more than a trickle, but not quite a wave, exit the cathedral, probably exactly the right amount for a lunchtime Mass on a Friday at a church that is a major attraction in a tourist city. Some people stop to shake hands with the priest, others skirt the clergyman and the knot of people he's greeting. Dave waits and watches until the faithful have dispersed and the priest has gone back inside. Then he waits some more and he watches as more tourists enter the church in groups of twos, threes and fours.

He waits until the first tourists he'd seen go in to the church come out, three middle aged women gasping and babbling about the beauty of the church and dragging a lanky teenage girl behind them. As they stand waiting for their tour bus to arrive in the square to pick them up, he stands and makes his way across the street and up the church steps.

Anyone else would probably feel relatively safe in such a public place but this many years on the job have stripped away any illusions Dave ever had of there being any safe place. He thinks about Paul Collins dying in a church pew beside his wife and daughter. He gives an almost silent snort as he enters the sanctuary; Jimmy Davison would certainly find a good deal of irony in David Rossi dying in church.

As much reading as he's done on the building over the last few days nothing prepared him for his first view of the interior of the cathedral. The soaring arches and the marble underfoot are just a frame for the magnificent art of the stained glass windows and the carved wooden sculptures of the stations of the cross. He understands why so many articles and people online raved about the beauty of the cathedral and he thinks he might, at last, understand what the phrase "built to the glory of God" means.

But he's not a tourist. He's not sure exactly why he is here, but he knows it's not to admire the art and the architecture. As unobtrusively as possible he stands in the corner and lets his eyes sweep over the people who _are_ here sightseeing. Maybe two dozen men and women milling around the church, heads tilted back, raptly absorbing the beauty around them, speaking in hushed tones in deference to the sacred space, all under the watchful eye of the elderly docent who is likely a volunteer from the parish. There are another dozen people scattered amongst the pews, some on kneeling benches, rosaries slipping through their fingers as their lips move in silent prayer, _Hail Mary, full of grace. Our Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women..._. Others sitting in silent contemplation, hands folded and heads bent. One or two appear to simply be resting as they sit with their heads tilted all the way back, studying ceilings, walls and windows.

Everyone, as far as he can tell, are exactly who they appear to be, tourist or penitent. Of course he's not exactly sure what he expected to see, but someone wanted him here. So, here he is.

He slides in to a pew to the right of the center aisle, roughly halfway between the font and the altar. He's not sure what he's feeling; he should be on high alert, but he's not. Truth be told, despite all of his careful observations of the buildings entrance and all of the tourists coming and going, he gave himself over to fate when he bought his plane ticket. There's a certain peace, here in this moment, in knowing whatever happens, he's done the best he can do and everything else is out of his hands.

It's fifteen minutes before he hears someone moving at the other end of the pew; he doesn't want to look, but all of that peace is gone as his heart suddenly begins pounding and his stomach is doing flips. When he feels someone sit beside him it takes all of his courage to turn his head.

_Emily._

His body doesn't seem to know what to do with the rush of emotion pushing it's way through his system. From a surprising emotional distance, his brain observes his body's response; it seems to be torn between throwing up or bursting in to tears. Though from the rushing in his ears, passing out may not be entirely off the menu. He swallows hard, blinks harder, then inhales, long and slow, through his nose.

She's dressed in jeans and a red t-shirt; she's thinner and her hair is shorter, but other than that, she looks the same. "You look pretty good for a dead woman." He tries for flip, but the shaking in his voice gives him away.

One of her eyebrows quirks and she gives him a half smile. "Really? Because you look like hell for a live man."

The bark of a laugh that escapes is short before he bites down on it, but it's enough of a disruption in the quiet space that a dozen people look their way. "God, Rossi, I had no idea you sucked so badly at stealth." She's making a joke but he can tell she's uncomfortable with the attention.

"Sorry," he says, voice significantly lower. He takes a minute, takes a breath, takes stock. He can feel his pulse beating in his ears, his throat is dry, and he's pretty sure his hands are trembling. Not reactions he's aware he's had in dreams; besides, he can smell the lingering incense from Mass and the scent of jasmine is just reaching his nose.

Slowly, so as not to startle (though he couldn't say who he was more afraid of startling, himself or Emily) he reaches out and touches her arm. The smile he gets in return is shaky.

_She's alive._

Then, _I must be dreaming._

He's had so many dreams where she's not dead, from the mundane "the hospital made a mistake" to  
>the more bizarre "she was dead, but the death reversed itself and she's alive and healing." He doesn't think this is a dream, it feels so real, but if it is, he knows he's going to be so heartbroken when he wakes.<p>

A heart attack would not be out of the question at this point, he thinks as he slides his fingers down her arm, feeling her warm, soft skin beneath his fingertips. His hand slides over hers until he can thread his fingers with hers, palm to palm.

"Hi," he says at last, voice soft, the tremble lessened but not completely gone.

Emily, _oh, God, it's really Emily,_lets out a shaky breath of her own. "Hi."

Dave looks around, then quickly back to her, almost afraid she'll disappear. "Is there some place we can go? To talk?"

He's not a fool; just because she's revealed herself to him, he knows it doesn't make it safe for her to be out and about.

She nods, standing. "We can go to my hotel."

There's a donation box near the front door. Dave stuffs most of the money he has in his pocket into the slot with the silent, ever repeating prayer, _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

Then they're out on the steps and the sun is glinting off of Emily's dark hair, shining on the glossy strands and he feels weak in the knees and he can't believe this isn't a dream.

She hands him a tour bus badge and he clips it on to his jacket; she lifts an eyebrow at him and  
>he realizes how out of place a jacket is here; he's not on a case. His smile is self-deprecating as he slips the jacket off and clips the badge to his shirt instead. Still, probably too formal, but better than before.<p>

The sun is almost too bright; he feels as if he is, for the first time in his life, perfectly present in a moment. It's overwhelming, exhilarating and completely unnerving at the same time.

The bus stops in front of the church and several people get off, then he and Emily get on. He follows her down the aisle to the back of the bus, torn between looking around for suspicious people and not wanting to take his eyes off of Emily. At the rear of the bus is a bench seat that takes up the width of the vehicle. There's plenty of room, but he sits close anyway, against her side, thighs brushing. She doesn't look at him, just gives a tiny smile and leans in to him a little.

The tour bus driver sets up a running commentary as they pass various buildings and sites of interest, but Dave doesn't pay any attention; he just lets the prattle wash over him and sets these moments in to his memory, set in stone, in concrete, in granite. The way her thigh is pressed against his, the way he can feel the warmth of her leg through the twin layers of denim. The faint smell of jasmine and, God, yes, Emily. The way her chest and stomach rise and fall with each of her breaths; he concentrates and thinks if he could close his eyes and listen very hard, he might just be able to hear her as she inhales and exhales. But closing his eyes, taking his eyes off of her, even for an instant, is not an option.

The bus stops at several of the city squares and the riverfront. People get on the tour bus and people get off the tour bus, and David Rossi never takes his eyes off Emily Prentiss.

Finally, they reach what must be both the start and end point for the tour and Emily stands and  
>makes her way to the exit. The bus driver tells them to have a good day and Emily slips a folded bill in to his tip jar. They step down in to a parking lot and see a line of eager tourists ready to replace them on the circuit around Savannah.<p>

Emily leads him to a non-descript rental car; when he's safely buckled in she pulls out in to traffic. "The hotel is just a few minutes away," she says, glancing at him. The look she gives him has a touch of both shyness and apprehension to it. He nods and doesn't say anything.  
>He doesn't know what to say. And if he did know what to say, he's fairly sure he wouldn't have the first clue how to say it.<p>

_I was drinking myself to death before the first postcard._

_Why didn't you ask for help?_

_Why did you let me think you were dead?_

_Where have you been?_

_Are you okay?_

But mostly, just...

_I love you. I love you. I love you._

The hotel is a chain, appropriate for either business travelers or tourists, not too different than the kind of hotels they used to stay in when they were on the road with a case. The lobby is bright and gleaming; there are a few people scattered around but no one seems to pay any attention to them as they head for the elevators. A rather harried woman with a fussy toddler on one hip and a little girl of about six join them in the elevator. Emily pushes the button for the third floor and the little girl stands on her tiptoes in bright pink tennis shoes and pushes the button for the fifth floor.

With the exception of the occasional fretful complaint from the toddler, the ride is silent and awkward in the way that only short elevator rides with people you don't know and people you thought were dead can be. They exit the elevator and he follows her down a thickly carpeted hallway. He can feel her getting more tense, probably afraid of the silence and what it means; she probably thinks he's angry.

He's not. It might come later, but right now he's still in shock, still too stunned to even attempt small talk. He keeps catching himself reading signs and postings, even the brochure for the tour company he had picked up off the bus. Didn't Reid tell him once that human beings couldn't actually read in dreams, that you might know what something says, but you couldn't actually read in the dream? If he's reading, he's not dreaming.

She has a hard time getting the key card to work, her hands are shaking. He curves himself behind her and steadies her hand; he feels her nervousness dissipate as they open the door together.

He waits for her to throw the deadbolt and flip the security brace, but as soon as she turns around, he's crowding her up against the door, hands sliding in to her hair, feeling the soft strands against his fingers, some slipping through freely, some catching against his fingers before they fall.

Her face has gone from guarded to soft in a matter of seconds. "Dave," she starts, but he stops her, running his thumb across her bottom lip.

"I...I just need to touch you, okay? I dream..." He swallows. "Since Boston, I've been dreaming about you. I wake up ready to swear you're alive, I wake up with your voice in my head, so right now, I just need to touch you. Is that all right?"

Her eyes are wide and dark, but she nods.

"Thank you," he whispers, fingers stroking through her hair again.

He's surprised she hasn't bleached or colored it, but it's the same dark, rich color it's always been, only it's chin length now instead of brushing over her shoulders. Hooking the strands behind her right ear, he traces the ridges and waves of her ear with his index finger; he notes the tiny freckle on her earlobe and he wants to cry.

_This is Emily's ear._

This is Emily's freckle.

He traces a finger over her eyebrow.

_This is Emily's eyebrow._

His thumbs stroke across her cheeks.

_This is Emily's face._

His hands cup her jaw, and he kisses her. Nothing passionate, just a simple press of mouths, so his lips can feel her lips and know _these are Emily's lips_.

He feels her hands come up, sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, one curving around his neck, the other cupping the back of his head, sliding through his hair. He feels the press of each finger against his neck, against his scalp. _Emily's fingers._

When he's able to move his mouth away from hers, he rests his forehead against hers. His knees are weak and his hands are shaking and his heart is jumping and dipping.

Still he stands there with her, forehead to forehead, feeling the warmth radiating off of her, breathing her in, his hands against her face, her arms around his neck.

_Emily._

Finally, when he's afraid his knees are going to give out on him, he moves away from her just enough to be able to twine their fingers again.

She seems to understand he doesn't want to talk just yet, that words would be too much to process at this point and she doesn't speak either.

He's been in hundreds of permutations of this same room all over the country. The cream and sage patterned bedspread matches the drapes and the carpet is neutral. There's a kitchenette in the corner, better than the average for this type of place...better, actually, than the first apartment he'd had on his own. There's a desk and a couple of chairs and something that looks like a glorified ottoman that's probably supposed to be a settee and there is no way he is sitting on it. So, he leads her to the bed. He really has no intention of putting any distance between them, even as little as the space between two chairs.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tugs on her hand to get her to sit beside him. She gives a tiny laugh; such a light, careless sound and his heart jumps in response. Kicking off her shoes, she climbs on the mattress, not to sit beside him as he'd intended, but to stretch out in the middle.

When he cranes his neck to look at her, she's on her side, a small smile on her mouth. Mentally shrugging, he kicks off his boots and arranges himself against the pillows, with only enough space between them so that he can easily see her face. She flings an arm over his hip and he matches the movement.

He looks at her face and lets his gaze linger on everything he thought he'd never see again. The new haircut frames her face, somehow making her look smaller, more delicate. Her skin is the same, pale and soft. Her eyes are bright, with just a trace of anxiety and the lines at the corners of her eyes seem to be a little deeper than the last time he'd been this close to her. Without thinking, he raises his hand and with a light finger soothes over the lines, then he pulls her a little closer and sets his mouth to them, kisses soft and gentle against her skin.  
>She makes a sound, something between anguish and relief, then her hands are against his cheeks and she pulls his mouth to hers. Her lips are warm, opening against his with a breathy sigh.<p>

His eyes close and he let's himself believe, let's himself fall in to the kiss.

Mouth on mouth, he finds himself relearning the tastes and the textures of Emily Prentiss. She tastes of mint and under that coffee. Some things never change, he thinks, then her tongue swipes against his and he stops thinking altogether.

She's pulling him closer as she kisses him and their bodies are pressed together; there's heat and pressure between them, though not nearly enough of either. Emily, thank God, seems to feel the same way since she breaks the kiss, sucking in breaths, and she begins unbuttoning his shirt. Once she has enough buttons free and enough air, she shoves her hands inside the shirt and presses her mouth to his again. The feel of her hands on his bare skin causes a sound he's never heard before to push itself up from the base of his throat and out against her lips. Her hands are hot and her mouth is hotter and he wants to taste and touch every bit of her.

Her mouth is moving against his like kissing him is water and she's been lost in the desert. She's greedy and thorough, and just a little bit frantic. He knows the feeling he thinks as he draws away from her mouth, both of them pulling in gasping breaths.

Making himself go slowly, he kisses across her face, gentle lips on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, one cheek, then the other. He lets his lips graze the corner of her mouth, then her lower lip. Her eyes are closed, but she smiles and pulls him a little closer. His fear of never having an erection again has been thoroughly banished in the last fifteen minutes and he gives a small groan at the increased contact and friction.

Emily laughs.

_Emily_, he thinks and the shock washes over him again. She's alive, here, with him, soft and warm under his hands. He draws back to look at her, struggling between the desire to stare at her forever and the need to kiss her again. He leans forward, eyes still open and swipes at her lower lip with his tongue. Her mouth opens a little and he feels the rush of her breath, but he concentrates entirely on her lower lip, the plump curve of the outside, the wet heat of the inside.

He lets his eyes slide closed as her mouth opens, but he doesn't move further than her upper lip. He lets the tip of his tongue trace lightly against her and concentrates on the feeling; the texture of the outer lip, the smooth, slick skin of the inner lip. He breathes in the scent of her, and lets his hands slide through her hair. He cups the back of her skull with one hand and glides the other one down to her neck, deliberately searching for the pulse point there. He feels it there, under his thumb, the steady thump of her heart.

He runs his tongue against her teeth and against her tongue. It's deliberate and it's slow and he can feel her beneath him, muscles bunching, body arching. He moves his leg between hers and she immediately presses against him; he smiles against her mouth and kisses her more deeply, thoroughly tasting her and she's kissing him back, open and eager, hot and dirty. She shifts under him, pressing up hard against his leg and moves her mouth away from his. "Jesus, Dave, touch me."  
>Biting back a laugh, he kisses her neck. He's pretty sure a dream Emily wouldn't be nearly as demanding as the real Emily. Kissing her ear, then gliding his tongue around the ridges, he slides his hands down her arms, moving from the skin-warmed material of her t-shirt to the actual skin of her arms. His touch is light at first and she makes a whining sound in the back of her throat so that he chuckles as he sucks her earlobe in to his mouth. He smoothes back up her arms with just a little more pressure and Emily makes an impatient noise, twists and grabs his hand, pressing it against her breast. He laughs aloud and rubs his thumb over the hardened nipple he can feel even through the layers of her t-shirt and bra.<p>

"God." She throws her head back and he is briefly distracted by the long line of her neck. "Harder." Despite what every superior officer and boss he's ever had might think, there are some orders he can follow. He cups her breast in his palm and presses. Emily hisses out some gratified noise, but he knows it's not enough. He needs to feel her skin under his hands, feel the pebbled nipple under his fingers, to touch it with his tongue, to take it in to his mouth.  
>He pushes the hem of her t-shirt up and goes to pull the shirt off, when he feels her tense against him. For a minute he wonders if he's read this wrong, because Emily isn't shy in bed, she isn't hesitant and she doesn't tense up at the thought of taking off her shirt. But even though this is Emily, his Emily, she's been through things he hasn't been a part of. He draws back a little and looks at her. "Everything okay?"<p>

There's a high flush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal and it takes her a bit to meet his look. When she does there's something in her eyes, something a little like fear or shame and he feels a little clench in his stomach wondering what else he doesn't know.

Silently, she takes his hand and pulls it across her stomach until he can feel the raised skin of a scar.

Emily Prentiss has a body that, in his opinion, could rival a supermodel. She's got long legs and a small waist and a perfectly proportioned chest. He's spent a lot of time familiarizing himself with every square inch of her porcelain skin. Now, he can feel the ridge of a considerable mark on that perfect landscape and he understands. "Hey," he says, looking into her eyes, "it's okay."

She swallows hard and shakes her head, not meeting his eyes. "It's ugly; it's awful."

Dave moves his hands up to cup her cheeks. "Hey," he repeats. "Listen to me. Listen." When she finally looks at him, he strokes his thumbs across her cheeks. "The alternative to this scar is you rotting in a casket that I helped carry." He's trying to speak gently but even he can hear the rough around the edges of his voice. "Up until an hour ago, that's what I thought was going on. Just so you know, I'm all kinds of grateful for that scar. I'd take a dozen more if it means you're alive. Hell, I'd take a thousand more."

Emily looks half moved and half doubtful until he pulls her into a sitting position and without warning or permission, brings her t-shirt over her head. She makes a noise of protest that somehow ends in a watery laugh as she pulls her head free of the cotton garment. The sleek hairstyle is shot to Hell, wisps falling across her eyes and cheeks, but Dave isn't paying attention anymore. Instead, he tugs on her hips until she's flat again, her legs on either side of his hips. She struggles against the mattress and comes up on her elbows as he bows over her, setting his mouth to the raised skin on her stomach.

It's not a small scar, and it's still pink. He can easily imagine how red and angry it must have looked just after her surgery. But he can also tell the surgeon did a good job and it will fade with time. It won't ever completely disappear, but given time it will get smaller, it will stand out less against the plane of her stomach.

At this point, he doesn't care if it flashed neon profanity at him for the rest of his life. Right now he's so overwhelmed and amazed to have Emily under his hands and under his mouth, he's willing to build a monument to the most beautiful scar he's ever seen.

He kisses the length of it, then he traces each side of it with his tongue. Emily protests with a weak "Dave," but he doesn't stop. He keeps kissing, he keeps licking, until he feels her relax under his lips, until he feels her body unclench and sink into the bed. Then he moves to other areas, relearning the taste of Emily's skin. He kisses his way across her stomach as he pops the button on her jeans and slides the zipper down. Mouthing at her hipbone, he breathes in, the slightly salty tang of skin and beneath that the smell of arousal. He kisses his way up her side, despite her shrieking giggles and protests of "Tickles!" until he reaches her bra clad breasts.  
>Despite orders, he knows they've all looked at the medical reports, so he's expecting to see the shamrock brand on her left breast, but there's only a small patch of skin that's redder than the rest surrounding it and he knows she's had some sort of plastic surgery. It looks a bit tender still, so he aims his mouth lower, kissing across the tops of her breasts with slow deliberation.<p>

Her hands are fluttering around his head as if she's not quite sure where she should touch him or even if she should. Finally, her hands settle against his shoulders with a gentle pressure, urging him closer as she arches and sighs under his mouth. It may have been several months since he's used the skill, but he's still able to multi-task enough to simultaneously lick at the exposed skin between her breasts, apply a little pressure between her legs with his thigh and unhook her bra with one hand. When he pulls the skin-warmed material away from her chest and slides it off her arms though, he becomes singularly focused on her breasts. Paying close attention to the way she feels under his hands and mouth, he cups her left breast in his palm, thumb rubbing across her nipple as he kisses the curve of it. He tells himself to remember, remember all of it, the way she tastes, the way she smells, the soft skin under his mouth and the pebbling flesh under his thumb, the little tiny gasps she gives with each exhale, the needy sound she makes at the light pinch to her nipple.

He remembers the last time they'd been alone, just a few minutes together in the elevator at the BAU. He'd been concerned about her, how tired she seemed, how stressed. They'd been working back-to-back cases and they hadn't had any time together in weeks. He'd suggested she take a vacation; what he'd really been asking was if she'd like to go away with him. He'd remembered thinking he'd love to take her somewhere sunny and laze around for a week or more, what it would be like to set his mouth to her skin when they weren't waiting for the next psychopath to disrupt a night or a weekend. If he'd known that was the last time they'd be alone, he would have done everything he could to remember the way she looked, the way she smelled, he would have abandoned their rules about no personal contact at work and he'd have held her hand, touched her face, kissed her.

While he has no intention of ever letting her go again, these past months without her have been an excruciating reminder about not taking anything for granted. So he's setting every sight, scent and sensation into his mind.

"Dave," she groans, pressing her hands in to his shoulders.

Smiling against her skin, he massages her breast and she arches. "Dave," she complains again so, he finally gives her what she wants and takes her nipple in to his mouth. He doesn't recognize the noise she makes, but it's pretty clear from the way she's simultaneously trying to pull his mouth closer and push his shirt off that at least as far as Emily's concerned there needs to be a whole lot more bodily contact.

He ignores her attempts to undress him and pays intimate attention to every millimeter of skin on her left breast, massaging and pressing, licking and sucking. Then he does the same to her right breast. Beneath him, Emily alternately writhes and curses. "Damnit, Rossi, get your clothes off."

He wants to; he's hard and she's hot and the thought of driving in to her makes him rub against her. But he's not throwing this experience away, not for anything, so he keeps his hands and mouth moving across her skin. Still when he manages to move away from her breasts enough to tug at the sides of her jeans, she won't let him pull them off until he allows her to remove his shirt. Her jeans aren't clear of her feet before she's working on his belt, the _clink_of the buckle and their excited breathing the only sounds in the room.

It may have been months since they've had sex, but he hasn't forgotten how determined she can be so he lets her undo the belt and divest him of his jeans. Then it's skin on skin and Emily's big wide eyes and he has to remind himself he wanted to take this slow. She's tugging him down on top of her and he allows himself to fall between her spread thighs. She's reaching for his cock, but he bats her hand away and slides his hand over her, tracing the outer lips of her sex in a slow swipe that makes her eyes close and her hands fall to the covers. He bends to kiss her, open mouthed, hot and dirty, as he strokes lightly against her and she opens to him in clear invitation.

His tongue is stroking against hers, his chest pressing in to her breasts as he slides two fingers up in to her. She's wet and warm and just a little bit frantic as he glances his thumb over her clit. He can feel her moving against him, straining to get more pressure on her clit as he begins fucking her with his fingers. The rhythm he sets is deliberate, not too slow, just enough to have her whimpering in the back of her throat with each glancing touch to her clit. She's getting wetter with every stroke of his fingers into and out of her. When he curls them in just the way he knows she likes and finally lets his thumb press into her clit, her body bows.

"God, Dave, god." She's practically sobbing. "Please, please, God, please."  
>Continuing to finger fuck her, he uses his thumb to circle her clit, applying pressure and a matching rhythm to his fingers. He can feel her muscles beginning to ripple and her breath starting to hitch and he knows she's close. Balancing carefully on his knees, he keeps his fingers moving as he bows over her and sucks her nipple in to his mouth.<p>

He wouldn't technically call it a scream, because Emily is not a screamer, but the sound she makes as she comes is the loudest thing he's ever heard from her. Absorbing every shuddering shock wave, he rides the orgasm out with her, against her, his cock pressed between them, his fingers inside her, his mouth on her.

As she shudders through the last waves, he gentles his hands and changes the suction of his mouth to tender kisses. She's not breathing so much as she is sucking in air and he can feel a light film of sweat on her skin; he feels fairly confident that it was a rather intense orgasm. Emily has always required a recovery period between orgasms, the more intense it is, the longer she usually takes to come back into the moment. So, he's genuinely surprised to see her eyes open when he moves to kiss her face. He's even more surprised to find himself flipped on to his back with Emily straddling him.

She's still breathing hard but the way she cants her hips against him is a clear indicator she's looking for pressure and ready to begin round two. That, of course, is fine with him.

The look on her face is a little wild but her hands are surprisingly slow and gentle as she runs her palms up his arms, to his shoulders. Her touch is tender, almost reverent and he finds his eyes are stinging. Leaning forward, she fits her mouth against his. Bringing one hand up, he slides a hand in to her hair, cupping her skull, and kisses her with abandon. Her hands are smoothing over his shoulders and arms; he closes his eyes, letting sensation overtake him, letting Emily lead him.

If the world ended right now, Dave thinks, he'd be okay with that. Here in this hotel room with Emily, the feel of her hands against his skin, the feel of her breasts against his chest, her lips against his. She keeps kissing him, over and over, lips and tongue and teeth. Gentle, playful, then hungry, then demanding, until her hips are starting to make little jerky movements against his and she's making needy sounds against his mouth. He wraps his arms around her, preparing to roll them again, but she sits up and takes his cock in hand.

Her eyes are glazed and her hair is wild, her lips are red and swollen from kissing and she is the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen and he never wants to stop looking at her. But when she starts stroking his cock he has to close his eyes, there's just no way to fight it.

Emily has always had a way of touching him that makes him fight between fully falling in to the feeling and reminding himself not to get so caught up in it that he lets go too soon. He's fifty-five years old and when she has her hands on his cock he feels more like he's fifteen.

He draws a long breath in through his nose and lets himself feel everything, the pressure of each of her fingers, the smooth expanse of her palm, glide of her skin against his cock. She's moving with her hand, the long deliberate strokes echoed by the bounce of her ass against his thighs.

Finally gathering enough strength, he opens his eyes and looks at her; she's watching him, eyes half open, but gaze shifting back and forth between his face and his hard-on in her hand. Feeling the muscles in his stomach start to tighten, he reaches out his hands, one cupping her breast, the other cupping her pussy.

"Fuck," she hisses, her head falling back. "Fuck." Then, never breaking the rhythm of her strokes, she rises onto her knees and positions her body over him until his cock is brushing against her wet folds. She sinks down on to him, moving her hips as she lowers herself, until she's completely impaled on him. Chest heaving, eyes wide, she holds there without moving. Damn good thing, too, because now that he's inside her, he's about one hip wiggle away from shooting his load. He'd forgotten how tight she is and dear God, he don't think he's ever felt anyone _so_wet.

They're both still, listening to each other breathe.

He can't believe he's here, in some anonymous hotel room, balls deep inside a woman he'd thought was dead up until an hour ago.

He's never felt more alive.

Something must show on his face, because Emily gives him a trembling, tentative smile. He raises up as much as he can and wraps his hand around the back of her neck. "C'mere," he murmurs and pulls her down for a kiss.

The change in position makes them groan against each others mouth and what had been a tender salute becomes a kiss that borders on obscene. It's sloppy and hot and when Emily moves her hips, he's pretty sure the top of his head is about to come off. But he doesn't have the attention span to worry about anything so mundane as the structural integrity of his skull, because Emily is rolling her hips with his cock inside her, and he really doesn't care what happens beyond this moment.

She sits up and thrusts against him, and he's not sure if she's fucking him or fucking herself on him and he doesn't care. All he cares about is the way she feels around him, wet and tight and so fucking good, he's not sure he's going to remain sane. She's riding him now in a steady rhythm, hips rising up then pushing down, gripping and sliding down the length of his cock, her breasts bouncing with every move. Her eyes are glassy and she increases the speed of her hips, skin slapping wetly against skin with every down-thrust. He slides his hands over her breasts and lightly pinches her nipples, which only causes her to move faster. Faster, he thinks, is good, because he doesn't know how much longer he can last. Everything is tightening up, his stomach, his thighs, his ass, his balls. Every nerve ending is chanting in voices of fire, _come, come, come_and he wants to answer, he does. He slips one hand down and delves against her, trying to touch her clit.

"No," she pants, pushing away from his hand. "This." She leans over him, grinding against him hard. "Just this." She entwines their fingers and begins fucking him, hard and fast, pressing her clit against his pelvic bone, her inner muscles rippling against his cock. He arches, fucking up in to her as her hips drive down against his.

"Come," she orders. "Come. Come with me." He groans and arches again, ready to let go. She bears down again, moving her hips frantically and he thrusts up in to and they're both moving hard and fast, hands clasped, bodies connected. There's no technique, no finesse; it's animal, it's instinct. It's so fucking good; they're moving against each other and he feels her start to come around him and then he's gone, thrusting up in short, sloppy strokes as his cock spasms. It feels as though every muscle in his body is releasing after being tightly contracted. It feels a little like he's been turned inside out, every nerve ending sizzling with fire and ice. He comes for what feels like a week. He comes with a strangled noise rising from his throat and tears leaking from his eyes.

He's gasping for air, yet, oddly, feels as though he's finally able to breathe again.

"I really did have surgery in Boston; it was evidently a pretty elaborate charade faking my death on the table. But-" she shakes her head as if trying to shake something loose. They've managed to rearrange enough to get under the covers, though they'd tossed the comforter on the floor since they'd made quite a mess of it. Her head is pillowed on his shoulder and he's drawing wide, slow circles on the skin of her back. "-I don't remember any of it. I remember the warehouse, but things get fuzzy after that. I remember being moved, riding in an ambulance, but I'm not sure if that was before the surgery or after. All these people talking around me, but nobody talking to me."

He squeezes her shoulder and tries to imagine how it must have felt, reminds himself how close she came to actually dying when feels the surge of anger over his anguish at hearing she was dead.

"Then nobody talking but engine noise and I opened my eyes and Clyde was there and I realized I was on a plane before I passed out again. Then, I woke up in an army hospital in Germany. My mother was there."

He makes a small noise of acknowledgment. The Ambassador hadn't been at Emily's funeral; she'd made the arrangements, but according to Hotch she had been too distraught to travel.

"It was a week, maybe a little longer, after...I was hurt."

He presses a kiss to her hair, holding her through whatever memory is making her pause. There's a bitter taste in his mouth that he didn't get to be there with her when she was hurt, when she was recovering. After a minute, he hears her swallow and she continues, "She told me what had been done." He feels what must be a one shouldered shrug. "Clyde had convinced them that if Doyle wasn't dead, then I had to be. It was the only way I could live and the only way the team would be safe."

Her hair bunches and rubs against his skin as she tilts her head up; it's not exactly the best position for eye contact, but he's able to see enough to make it worth not moving. "When I found out you thought I was dead...Clyde said if they'd known about us beforehand they could have-" She appears to be searching for a word, but then she makes a face. "-You could have been in on it? But by then they said it was too risky to let anyone else know."

His hand stills. "Anyone else? Who else knew?"

There must be something in his voice, because she rises up on her elbow to be able to look at him fully. "You sound pissed."

"I've been drowning in Scotch and self-pity for the past six months." His voice is sharp and there is nothing but anger in the tone. "You bet your ass I'm pissed that somebody knew and didn't tell me."

Her mouth turns down; not in answering anger but, it seems, in dismay. "They were sworn..."

"Who are 'they'?"

She shifts and pulls the sheet up to cover her breasts as she moves in to a sitting position. "My mother. Clyde."

_Defensive position,_he thinks and pushes. "Maybe on that end, but there had to be some significant strings pulled on this side of the Atlantic to pull this off before it ever got that far. Who else?"

"Only those necessary to pull the whole thing off." She pushes her hair back from her face. "It wasn't just about me."

"I know that, Emily." He's trying to be reasonable but he can hear the aggression in his own voice. _Don't be an asshole,_the reasonable part of his brain pleads. Sadly, he's never been very good about listening to that part of his brain. "It was always about protecting the team." Pushing himself up, he moves to rest against the headboard. "But I'm fairly capable of protecting myself."

"What about Jack? Or Henry? Or Diana Reid? Or your sisters' families?" The color is high in her cheeks, her voice is starting to rise and she's starting to drawl in the way she does when she is beyond pissed off. "Are you capable of protecting them, too? All at once? Do you know what Ian Doyle would do if he knew I was alive? If he thought any of you were standing between him and me?"

"Henry." He pounces. "You said Henry. JJ's not on the team any more."

"She's one of my best friends." If it were anyone else, they might not have known she was deflecting. "Trust me, there was very little he didn't know." Her shoulders hunch and her voice cracks. "I'm still not sure how he didn't know about us."

"You avoiding me for weeks probably helped." Until he hears the bitterness, he doesn't realize how much that had hurt.

Emily blows out a breath. "Dave...I didn't...I should have fought harder to get them to tell you as soon as I woke up." Her fingers are tangled in the sheet and she looks stricken and guilty.

There's so much he wants to say, so much he wants to ask. He wants to yell at her for not trusting him, he wants to shake answers about who else knows out of her, he wants to question everything about their relationship, but at the look on her face, it all fades away.

_She didn't have to let you know she was alive now. But she did. Thank God, she did._

It's that thought that has him reach out to her; his hand touches her arm, fingers curling lightly against her bicep, skin warm and alive under his palm.

_Thank God._

"Em." His own voice cracks. "C'mere." He tugs gently and she comes easily, folding herself against him, molding herself against his side as his arms go around her.

They're quiet for awhile, pressing against each other, sunlight sneaking in to the darkened room through the cracks in the heavy hotel curtains. He closes his eyes and listens to her breath, feels the steady rise and fall of her chest against him.

_She's alive._

It's not an irrational thought or a foolish hope. It's a fact. She's alive, here, pressed against him, breathing the same air he's breathing.

Finally, he clears his throat. "It's a lot to process."

He feels a short, sharp nod against his shoulder. "I know." Her lips press against his skin. "I understand." There's pain and sadness and regret in her tone.

"Hey." He moves, maneuvering down in a half jerky, half sliding movement. "It's a good thing."

Her eyes are damp and her lashes are spiked with tears. "I want it to be."

"God, Emily." He presses a kiss to her mouth a little frantically. "There's never been anything better."

She looks as if she doubts him and he wonders at what makes her hesitant to believe her lover isn't happy to know she's alive.

Pulling her as close as he can and still see her face, he cups her jaw, stroking his thumb across her cheek. "Emily." He searches for words. "I know...I know we started out saying no strings, but I..." The right words don't seem to exist. There are others he could use, of course, but they all seem too trite, too ordinary and he's said them to other women before. He wants new words for Emily, a new way to say how much he's feeling, to let her know it's more than he's ever felt before.

He breathes deeply and tries again. "It was always more than I pretended it was; maybe I didn't realize how much more until you...until I lost you, but it's more than we agreed to." Her lip is trembling and she's looking at his face but not meeting his eyes. "Hey." He tilts her chin and gets her to look at him and he tells her the truth. "It's more than I've ever felt for anyone."  
>Her lip trembles shakes and he lets his thumb graze against it. "I imagine I'll have a lot of processing to do and yeah, I'll probably be pissed off about six months of Hell, but it will never, ever mean I'm not grateful that it means you're alive. Okay?"<p>

Emily blinks and a tear overflows and rolls down her cheek as she nods. "Yeah." She sniffs and nods again. "Yeah."

"Good." He swipes at another tear and kisses away another. Knowing full well she hates to cry normally, he'd ignore her tears to let her save face, but today he's pretty close to tears himself and really there's no reason to hide anything from each other any more.

"I love you," she chokes out and presses into him.

He doesn't answer, just fits his mouth to hers and puts all of his feeling in to kissing her.

It's dark by the time they come up for air and he's pissed off again.

"You can't just come back from the dead for a weekend," he snarls at her reflection in the mirror.

"The same problem exists that existed before," she raises an eyebrow at him as she dabs at her face with some sort of sponge thing. "You knowing I'm alive doesn't change that."

She's right, but it doesn't piss him off any less. "I could..." he begins, but she shakes her head.

"This is enough of a risk." It ticks him off that she shoots him down before he's even had the chance to offer; it ticks him off even more that she's right about this, too. If Ian Doyle is still watching the BAU, any sudden change will throw up red flags.

There's a real temptation to argue, but he knows it would be useless. Besides, she's had longer to think about this than he has. He also doesn't want to press her so much she disappears again and this time, stays gone. His stomach tightens at the thought of it.

He watches her stroke a red lipstick against her mouth and finds his irritation lessening; it's hard to believe he'd worried about never being hard again. He feels like he's been nothing but varying states of hard since they closed themselves in to this hotel room. He's already fucked her twice and he's hoping for round three when they come back from dinner.

"Somewhere crowded," she says. "Touristy."

On the recommendation of the desk clerk, they end up at a restaurant that's really a series of shacks and sprawling patios thrown up along four acres at the waters edge on Tybee Island just south of Savannah. There's a gift shop, an aviary with tropical birds and a man-made swamp where tourists can feed the alligators with fishing poles (exorbitantly priced chunks of something that Rossi strongly suspects is dog food). The decor is tacky and the atmosphere is festive, the food is amazing and under the strings of lights criss-crossing the deck where they're seated, Emily Prentiss is utterly gorgeous. He's not sure he's ever been happier.

"Tell me," she says, sliding her fingers through the condensation beading on her wine glass. "How is everyone?"

He takes a sip of his beer, because really no amount of really good seafood is going to get him to drink a wine with no more distinction than "white" or "red". He knows he's a snob, but this is more of a beer place anyway. He contemplates that for a minute as he idly rearranges the condiments in the center of the table.

"It's been hard," he allows. "On everyone." An expression of discomfort shifts across her face and he holds up a hand. "Don't. No matter what we've been through, I know everyone of them would say they'd rather it be this way, if it was the only way to keep you alive and safe."

Still, she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "I hope you're right. Because if the positions were reversed, I'm not sure I'd be as understanding."

"You would be." He quirks a grin at her. "You'd be pissed off, but you'd understand."

Emily gives a little laugh and grabs his hand. Her expression eases and her tone is a little bit lighter. "I hope, if I'm able to get back there, eventually, that they'll find a way to forgive me."

"They will," he says softly. The range of emotions he's experienced over the past ten hours should be enough of a warning against making such promises when it comes to things so volatile as emotions. He knows he's still got quite a range to go through; but now that he knows their time together is limited, he's not going to waste it being angry with her. He's perfectly capable of processing that when time is not quite so precious of a commodity.

"I hope so." She takes a sip of her wine and gives him a smile.

Moving his chair a little closer to hers, he leans in. "When do you think that will be?"

She shrugs and doesn't meet his eyes. "No idea. Doyle is still out there. Clyde has people tracking him."

"He's in Alaska," Rossi says bluntly.

Emily gives him a shocked look. "I know. How do you know?"

He allows a small smile to touch his mouth. "How do you think?"

Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. "Garcia." Her eyelids raise and she squeezes his hand. "She shouldn't be tracking him."

He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Have you ever known Penelope Garcia to shy away from anything she shouldn't do?"

The snort she gives is inelegant and full of understanding. "Good point." Sobering, she spears him with a serious look. "Make sure she doesn't do anything stupid, okay?"

Shrugging, he makes a helpless gesture. "Not sure if I would even know what that is at this point." He motions to the waitress for another beer. "But I will do what I can."

"No, really, Dave. Even knowing where he is is dangerous; he's not a fool." Her look is earnest and and her voice is sincere and it sort of makes him want to punch the nearest wall.

"Neither am I." It comes out as a snarl and he sees her head go back, so he makes himself take a deep breath of the salty air before he adds, much more calmly, "Neither is Garcia."

"Dave-" she starts, a little sharp, but he holds up a hand.

"I get it. I get it. He's a criminal mastermind and you know him-" He starts to say _intimately,_but even he knows he can't play that off without starting an out and out brawl and that's not what he wants. He wants her to be safe, he wants her not to disappear again, he wants her to come home. "-Better than anyone. I am not arguing that; I know he's smart and I know he's dangerous; all the more reason to keep tabs on his whereabouts."

While _better than anyone_was the better choice in his mind, he still sees her mouth tighten at the words, tiny creases in her lips and lines bracketing her mouth, as if she could read his original thought and is debating the merits of kicking his sorry ass.

He heaves out a breath and says a quick prayer for patience. "Look. I get that you're scared for us, probably more than you are for yourself. But Garcia doesn't know you're alive." Neither did he this morning and he's doing his best to remember to be grateful she's alive instead of pissed off about his own pain. "Garcia is doing what Garcia does. If he really is as thorough and smart as everyone says, then can you imagine a bigger red flag than Garcia _not_tracking him?"

Even before they became lovers, it was not a common occurence for him to think of something Emily Prentiss had not already covered. Rare as it was before, recently he'd thought the sensation was extinct, so he lets himself feel every ounce of satisfaction when her eyes widen with realization and her mouth rounds to give voice to a soft, "Oh."

He savors it until the waitress slides into the space between them to pour his beer. When Emily refuses another glass of wine and the waitress saunters away, Emily leans forward. "The supposition is he's going to cross to Russia and regroup there."

Dave wipes at his mouth with a cheap paper towel, torn from the roll in the middle of their table. "The question I have is, if they know where he is, why haven't they done something to either arrest him or take him out."

Sighing, she pushes her plate away. "They're fairly sure he's going to revive some old contacts when he crosses. It might be a chance for them to stop the flow of weapons to quite a few terrorist cells."

Frowning, he crumples the paper towel and drops it on his plate. "It's not enough that he killed all those people in DC? Families? Kids? They're going to let him run loose? For intel?"

Emily gives him a look; he's sure it's one she learned on the Ambassador's knee and it's not a look with which he is entirely unfamiliar. It's a look that covers a range. It could be asking a question, like _did you really just say something that asinine aloud?_ or it could be making a statement, such as_you're being an ass_ and occasionally it functioned as a command, _don't be an ass_. He doesn't like the implications but he's grateful he's able to still receive the look.

"We're talking the difference between him being tried for a dozen lives versus saving thousands, maybe tens of thousands of lives." Her mouth turns down fiercely. "If there's some good that can come out of all the mess, I'd like to see it." She looks down. "I'd like to know my...actions could somehow lead to something good."

Open mouthed, he stares at her for a moment. Then, he shakes his head and throws some bills on the table. "C'mon." He stands and holds a hand out to her, but instead of heading to the parking lot, he leads her down a short set of steps out on to the dock.

The lights from the restaurant and the shops reflect on the dark water, images distorting over the gentle ripples. It's quiet on the dock with only distant sound of laughter and conversation floating across from the dining areas. There's the smell of the ocean and under that, the smell of fish and other dead sea-life. It's not a particularly pleasant smell but it's a part of life on the water. Her hand is still clasped in his and he can feel her waiting for him to speak but he's not going to hurry, not when it's this important.

They reach the edge of the dock where a boat is bobbing gently, almost imperceptibly, barely rising and falling with the motion of the water. Dave leans against one of the wooden posts at the end of the pier and pulls Emily toward him.

"I don't like this," he says baldly.

"Dave-" Her eyes are sad and her tone is disappointed.

Holding a hand up, he shakes his head. "Let me just say this." He runs his thumb over her knuckles, listens to the gentle lap of water and Emily's quiet breathing. "I don't like it, but it's a helluva lot better than the way I thought it was this morning."

She gives a small choked laugh and moves a little closer to him as he continues to speak. "I could say a whole lot about the way things went down, about trusting the team, about trusting _me_but the truth is I'm too damned grateful you're not dead. As for your actions counting for something?" He bends his head and looks directly into her eyes. "There is no counting the number of lives you saved by helping put him away the first time. And what you did for Declan? You not only saved his life, you changed the course of it forever."

She blinks and tries to look away.

"Hey." Dave slides his hand across her cheek and into her hair, moving his head so she can't look away. "Hey. And I get it; not only was this the only way to keep you alive, it was the only way to keep the rest of us safe. Doing things this way saved my life, Hotch's life, Reid, JJ, Garcia, Morgan. Henry. Jack. Probably Reid's mom's life and Morgan's mother and sisters." His fingers stroke against her scalp and he savors the soft feel of her hair under his palm. "I might not like this, but I understand it. What I don't understand is how you can doubt for a minute that what you've done is a good thing. You're alive. The rest of the team is alive. Jack and Henry are alive. Declan is alive. And if that's not good Emily, I don't know what is."  
>Taking in a deep breath, she releases it in a slow, loud sigh. Then she lays her head against his shoulder; he turns his head and kisses her ear. They stand like that for a long time, there on the edge of the water that somehow felt more like the edge of the world.<p>

"Emily?"

His body is flush against hers, his front pressed against her side. He's tracing his fingers over her collarbone, down her arm, over and around each finger. There's a slight red glow from the fire detector on the ceiling, but the room is still so dark her face is only a shadow in a room full of shadows.

"Mmmm?" The hum of her voice is heavy, like it takes all the effort in the world to make the sub-lingual sound of inquiry.

"Don't go to sleep."

She takes in a deep breath and shifts. "What?"

He kisses her shoulder. "Don't go to sleep."

Her camisole is still obscuring the numbers on the bedside clock from when it had landed there when he'd peeled it off of her and tossed it away. But he's sure they have moved from one day into the next.

"What? Why?"

Smoothing her hair down, he sets his lips against her ear. "Stay awake with me. You can sleep later."

"But I'm tired," she sighs. "I had to hang out in that church for two and a half days with jet lag."

He kisses her ear. "You." He kisses her cheek. "Did" He kisses her neck. "Not."

"I did, too." She yawns as she rubs her head against the pillow.

He raises up on one elbow and looks down at her, focuses on her face in the darkness. Her hair is dark against the white pillowcase, and he can make out her pale features in contrast to the fall of her hair. "You thought I'd show up after one postcard?"

"I wasn't 100% sure if they were taking one or two days to get to you." Her eyes shine and she gives him what he can tell is a sleepy smile even in the minimal light. "And you have always been utterly unpredictable. I wasn't sure if you would come at all."

"What?" He smoothes a few wayward strands of hair off of her cheek. "How could you think I wouldn't come?"

She shrugs. "I didn't know if I'd put the whole message together well enough."

"It got me here." He lets his fingers stroke over her forehead. "I wanted you to be alive so much, I would have followed a lot fewer clues." Swallowing hard, he spares a moment to be grateful for the dark.

Grabbing his hand, she pulls it to her mouth, kisses it, then pulls it to rest against her heart.

_Her beating heart._

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoilers:** Lauren (forget everything else) **Author's Notes:** A long, long, LONG time ago, **smacky30** won me in a fandom charity auction. She gave me a gorgeous prompt: Prentiss/Rossi and Brandi Carlile's The Story. I am ASHAMED (really, honestly ashamed) at how long it's taken me to write/update/finish this story (I've been working on it for over a year and a half). From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank **microgirl8225** and **wojelah** for holding my hand through this; I have been by turns a slacker and a demanding diva. They are wonderful women, amazing cheerleaders and superlative betas. Though all mistakes are mine because I WILL mess with things until I post. AND I just realized I had posted this to LJ but not here. Ooops. Sorry

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><p>She won't let him come with her to the airport. "Couples attract attention."<p>

"We've been out as a couple all weekend," he argues, and they have; Emily had insisted every place they go be crowded with tourists to make blending in easier. They'd walked River Street and she'd helped him pick out several bright and shiny baubles for Garcia, though he does decline to elaborate on why everything he's purchasing is purple. Penelope may not know why she's getting the gifts, but the idea of it makes them both smile.

"Couples attract attention at _airports_," she clarifies, dropping a hairbrush into a bag that he's not sure is an oversized purse or an undersized travel bag. "Couples don't attract attention at tourist spots."

He suspects her reluctance to allow him to accompany her has more to do with her not wanting him to know her final destination rather than attracting attention. She's been more than firm on that score; she won't say where she lives or what name she is living under. He's trying to remain grateful, but the situation is challenging. "When will I be able to see you again?" He swallows the bitterness he feels when he remembers he'd been determined a few days ago never to let her out of his sight again.

Emily sighs and pushes her hair behind her ear. "I'm not sure."

Rossi shakes his head, trying not to telegraph the unbelievable frustration he's feeling.  
>Stuffing a t-shirt and a compact umbrella into the bag, Emily frowns at him. "Look, if you can't handle this-"<p>

That is about all the nonsense he has patience for, evidently. "What? You'll go back to being dead?"

Turning, she gives him such a look of hurt and frustration, his aggravation deflates. He holds up both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry." Moving toward her, he grabs her hand. "I'm sorry. Really. I just can't-" He stops, breathes in and tugs her close. "I don't want to go back to a life without you."

Her whole face softens and she leans into him.

"It's not forever," she murmurs, hair brushing his chin, breath against his neck.

He sighs, wanting to argue that anything more than a day is too long. Instead, he bends his head and kisses her forehead. "I know."

They don't speak much after that, but they touch: her hand brushes his arm as he's untangling two pairs of jeans hastily discarded the night before, his palm cups her hip as she caps the toothpaste and drops it into a travel bag, her fingers glance over his back as he reaches for his jacket. There are a hundred little kisses pressed to cheeks, foreheads, fingers in the space of an hour.

Finally, they're both packed, her bags to the left of the door, his to the right.

They sit on the bed, side by side, fingers entwined, thighs pressing against each other. They're so quiet he can hear her breathe and when she looks at her watch he can hear her sigh. "I have to go."

She stands, moves to the door and slings the bag over her shoulders. When she turns, she seems startled that he's followed her. "Dave," she exhales his name and he feels his stomach clench, but even he has to admit that's better than the constant feeling of his heart breaking.

Emily reaches up and kisses him, hard and deep. He tastes her and tests her and breathes her in and tells himself _remember, remember_. All too soon she breaks away. "Wait at least two hours before you head to the airport," she admonishes him and he knows if he were to look whatever flight she's leaving on would be departing in the next hour and forty-five minutes.

"Okay," he says tonelessly.

The door opens and she's ready to step out into the hall and he's locking every emotion he has down. He doesn't know how to do this.

Standing with the door open, he watches her and he feels desperately greedy, hurriedly trying to memorize the fall of her hair, the length of her neck, the curve of her shoulder blades against the rigid plane of her back. Turning suddenly, Emily flings herself at him and he catches her close; he doesn't try to kiss her, he just holds her. She feels so slight against him and it takes everything he has to let her go when she steps back again. Her sunglasses are already in place, but he has no trouble telling that this parting is just as hard for her as it is for him. There's no comfort in that, but at least he's not alone.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and presses it into his hand. "No more than once a week and you have to use an internet cafe or the library. If you use some place with free wi-fi don't go to the same place twice." She gives him what he guesses is supposed to be a severe look, but he's trying to catch up, trying to decipher what she means. "I'm serious, Rossi. No names. No more than once a week." He looks down at the slip of paper in his hand and sees an innocuous e-mail address along with the log-in information for the account printed in those same non-descript blocks his postcards had been addressed in. When he looks back, she's gone.

He could step out into the hall and watch her go, he supposes, but he doesn't know how he could do that and not snatch her back. Instead, he seats himself back on the bed, closes his eyes, letting the lingering smell of jasmine soothe him until his allotted two hours have passed.

He doesn't recall ever being less happy about going home.

"He's an extremely organized sexual sadist, probably white between the ages of thirty and forty-five, relatively affluent, intelligent. Possibly married with a wife and children."

"Look at the newbie go!" Morgan is stretched out in his chair at the round table, but still somehow manages to bump JJ's shoulder playfully as he swings his chair in a slow arc.

Color stains JJ's cheeks, but she lifts her chin and inclines her head before she bumps his shoulder in return. "Hey, I learned from the best." It's her first week back; after a complex move of recommendations and paperwork shuffling, she's on the team as a profiler instead of a media liaison. It had been his suggestion, but now he finds himself turning things over in his head and he's wondering how much she knows about Emily's faked death. He and Emily had carefully skirted the issue the remainder of their weekend, but considering the pieces of the puzzle, someone with connections at the State Department would be in the best position to fake a death and create a new life for Emily in Europe.

Of course, the Ambassador is not lacking in connections either; still, he finds himself watching JJ with an appraising eye when she's not looking. He keeps thinking about Emily worrying that Doyle would set his sights on Henry and then about how she'd backpedaled when questioned. He thinks about JJ's solemn face when she'd walked into the surgical waiting room, how in retrospect, it resembled her press conference face, the one she always put on when she was going to be spinning a story for the media and the public. In the end, he doesn't suppose it matters who made what arrangements, but he watches all the same.

Morgan turns to Hotch. "So, are we gonna go?"

"We haven't been invited in yet." He looks up from the file he's scribbling in, face serious as always. "At this point they're just asking for a consult. Right now the unsub appears to have a fairly long cooling-off period. If they find another body, Denver PD will be forced to ask us in."

"Ugh," Garcia shudders. "Colorado is way too pretty and peaceful to have a serial killer running around."

"Emily saved my life in Colorado," Reid says wistfully. Garcia reaches out and pats Reid's shoulder, and Morgan looks at him with a sad shake of the head. Hotch looks back to his files and JJ reaches down to adjust the strap of her shoe, but not before Dave sees the brief flicker of guilt on both their faces. Hotch continues to study his file and JJ sits up and takes a sip of water from the sweating bottle in front of her. They're both looking anywhere but at each other or Reid.

The amount and intensity of the rage that suddenly surges in Dave's chest surprises him. He almost stands and storms out, but that would give away too much. So he sits in his chair, holding his tongue, not aware until much later that his teeth and jaw hurt from clenching.

Eventually the meeting breaks up: Hotch heads to another budget meeting, Morgan follows Garcia to her lair, asking her to work some sort of cyber magic on his behalf and JJ departs with Spencer trailing behind, spewing facts at her about brain development in children Henry's age.

Dave just sits, reaching for calm, reaching for reason. He knows why they did it, he knows it was the best way to keep Emily safe, he knows he's transferring his anger to the two of them, even though he knows they did the right thing. And the Hell of it is, he can't even let them know he's mad; he's not sure how he's going to pull that one off. There isn't anyone as good as he is at a poker face in an interview (maybe one or two as good as, but better, no.). But in life? In relationships? Dave doesn't think he knows how _Better learn,_he thinks, but his inner voice sounds suspiciously like Emily.

Which is how he ends up at the public library on a Wednesday night, carefully tapping out the information from the paper Emily had given him. There's a single message in the inbox from a seemingly anonymous e-mail address. The e-mail is dated the day they left Savannah, the subject line is blank, but the entire message is a single sentence _You didn't wait a week, did you?_ He gives a quiet laugh and sends a one word reply, _No._

As he's composing another e-mail, something a little longer, filled with details about his days and the team where he's trying to find a way to be intimate without being personal, a reply pops in to the inbox. _Still. You did better than I thought you would._

He grins, abandons his longer e-mail and responds. _I was under strict orders._

In less than two minutes there's a new reply. _Not like you to actually almost follow orders._

Rossi snorts and types. _Give me some credit. I'm improving with age._

_That you are._

He can almost hear the sass and innuendo in her voice in those three words and he's grinning like the lovesick fool he knows he is as he pecks out, _Flatterer. How are you?_  
>It occurs to him this is more like the instant messaging than e-mailing, but he's sure she'd worry about the security of that kind of connection.. While he might want more contact with her, he's not going to do anything to jeopardize her safety or cause her to be anxious about her safety, so he's not going to suggest more than she's willing to give.<p>

The responding e-mail is slower this time and he wonders again where she is- a big city, a small village, holed up in a one room apartment in Paris or sipping espresso at a cafe on the streets of Rome. He checks his watch and realizes wherever she is in Europe, it's the middle of the night. He puts her at home then, wherever home is; he imagines her in a small bedroom, sitting up in a small bed with her computer on her lap, hair brushing across her shoulders as she studies the screen, fingers clicking across the keys.

_I'm good._

I miss you.

He feels a sharp pinch in the middle of his chest at the words, and though he knows he shouldn't he taps out what's in his heart.

_I miss you, too._

Come home.

Though he knows what the answer is before the e-mail wings its way to her, he's still disappointed in the response.

_I can't. It's too dangerous._

He frowns at the computer screen.

_Let me come to you, then._

The intonation of her next words are as clear as if she's right next to him.

_You know that's just as dangerous._

Growling at the computer only earns him a look from the teenage girl at the computer table next to his, but he's fairly confident Emily can feel it through however many miles and wires and cyber connections when he replies, _If you're worried for yourself, that's one thing. But if you're trying to protect me, I'd rather take the chance and be happy._

There's an infinite amount of unspoken exasperation in the amount of time it takes for the next e-mail to appear in the inbox.

_One person in danger means everyone is in danger._

The temptation to argue is strong, but he breathes through it. Still, he's less than gracious in his concession.

_Okay._

There's an even longer pause before her response arrives.

_Are you free the first weekend of next month?_

Despite his pique, he perks up at that question.

_I am. What did you have in mind?_

Her reply appears on his screen almost instantaneously.

_How do you feel about tropical locales?_

Quirking his eyebrow at the computer and types: _I am all for them, especially if the company is the same as my last weekend away._

There's another pause, before the next e-mail arrives.

_Keep an eye on your mail._

My plane is boarding.

Take care.

The image he'd had of her in a small apartment shatters and scatters inside his head.

Sighing, he types out the missive he'd originally intended; an update on life in DC and at the BAU without using any names. He ends it without hesitation, _Love,_but then realizes with some frustration he can't use his name. Still, he leaves the "love," figuring they could both use all of that they could get.

He presses send, then rereads each e-mail in their exchange several times. When the quiet admonition comes over the intercom that the library will be closing in fifteen minutes, Dave does what he doesn't want to do and deletes the exchanges, then clears the internet history. He's sure there are other things he should do that would make it more secure, but he doesn't know what they are, much less how to do them, so this will have to do.

On the drive home, he turns the whole situation over in his mind, trying to think of a way to bring Emily home and make sure she and the team are safe. It's frustrating as fuck to realize there really is no way, other than a bullet between Ian Doyle's eyes, and apparently the powers that make these decisions - whomever or whatever they are - don't don't want that to happen. That goes against every instinct Dave's ever had since he played his first game of cops and robbers at the age of three. The Bad guys are supposed to lose, the good guys are supposed to see to it, not let them run loose to see what other bad guys they are going to do business with.

So, Emily can't come home yet, okay. He hates it, but he gets it. But that doesn't mean he can't go be with her. As long as they plan it carefully, go slowly, he could make a very public show of retiring or taking an extended leave of absence. People would buy it, just like they would buy he wanted to spend his retirement or leave of absence traveling. He could even say he's doing research for another book. He makes a mental note to start wearing Emily down when he e-mails her next week.

But there's only a brief e-mail from her the next week.

_Traveling away from e-mail. Can you plan to travel on the first? Love._

Dave has to remind himself to be grateful he's in touch with her at all rather than being angry and frustrated that their contact is so brief. It's something he has to remind himself almost daily at work, as well; it's a fight to not let every bit of his frustration and anger ooze out toward Hotch and JJ. As it stands, he's aware of the wall he's put up between them. Aaron, to his credit, seems to know not to try to bridge the distance. Whether that's from guilt or fear, Dave doesn't know; he only knows it's the only way he can still look at Hotch, much less work with him.

Tamping down his disappointment and impatience, he types out a long e-mail filled with very little information, but the feeling of how much he misses her infused in every word, every phrase, every sentence. He rereads it several times, making sure he hasn't given away too many details, in case someone is watching him, though Garcia seems to think no one is. He tells her he misses her and he'll see her on the first, though he has no idea where they'll be meeting. He signs the e-mail _Love_and hits send.

The postcard arrives on the twenty-eighth.

_Senor Frog's, Playa del Carmen_

He grins. If she wants touristy, that's going to do it.

On the first, he's walking in to the bar in Mexico and this time he's dressed the part in a panama hat and the gaudiest Tommy Bahama shirt he'd been able to find. There's never been anything more beautiful than the smile she gives him when he joins her at the table in the corner.

It's like a dream, like a fantasy spending the weekend walking along the blue water with the light sting of the surf against their ankles, making love at all hours with the beach breeze stirring the gauzy draperies of their hotel room, dancing in a darkened corner of the beach bar at their resort as he sings along, slightly off key, with the slow love song playing as the night stretches out across the sand. He gathers the moments like a miser, memorizing the way she looks with sand under her feet and the stars over her head, the curve of her shoulder under his hand, the taste of her neck, the smell of her hair.

He can't talk her into a bikini; she's too conscious of her scar. But he remains grateful and kisses it every opportunity he gets, hushing her protests with his lips against her skin.

The next month they spend a weekend in Las Vegas, playing blackjack and the slot machines. He tries teaching Emily baccarat, then loses very badly to her at strip poker back in their room. He's completely naked and pouting, the epitome of a sore loser when she shimmies her panties out from under her skirt and straddles him. Later, still naked, but not feeling at all like a loser, he pulls her close, fingers slipping under the shirt she's wearing, _his shirt_, and reading her skin.

It's South Beach the next month, but they miss most of the glamorous nightlife, sticking to their hotel room. But he's far happier watching her eat Ben and Jerry's _Late Night Snack_in bed. "Who puts chocolate on potato chips?" he mock grumbles, fascinated with the rapturous expression on her face as her lips close over the creamy treat. "For that matter, who puts potato chips in ice cream?"

She closes her eyes in an expression of rapture and gives a low moan, before swallowing. He watches her swallow and feels his cock twitch.

"Rossi." She digs in the carton with the spoon. "Try it."

He eyes the proffered glob of ice cream and the tiny trace of caramel at the corner of Emily's mouth. "All right," he says, taking the spoon and feeding it to her, then diving in for a kiss immediately after. "Mmmm," he hums, licking the wayward caramel. "S'good."

"Told you," she gasps as his ice cream-cold lips touch her warm neck.

The melting ice cream makes an unholy mess of the sheets, but all of the big hotels have 24-hour housekeeping and he lets Emily hide in the bathroom while the two women change the sheets. He's sure they've seen worse, but he still tips them generously when they leave.

They're supposed to meet in San Francisco the first weekend of the following month, but he has to e-mail her to tell her he won't make it when the team is called to catch a serial arsonist in Philadelphia. They try for San Francisco again the next month, but word comes that Ian Doyle is on the move. Garcia lets him know Doyle has left Alaska the same day Emily hears it from Clyde, who tells her not to travel until they get another lock on Doyle's location.

It's another month before they're able to meet on Saint Lucia.

Despite the blue skies and bluer water, Emily is tense and distracted.

Garcia says Doyle only stayed in Russia two weeks. He appears to have regrouped and is back in business, as he and several business associates have crossed the border into Kazakhastan. Penelope has been cycling rapidly, hurtling from frenetic tracking to frustrated despair and back again. When Dave presses her, she tearfully confesses she can't keep constant track of Ian Doyle.

Dave wonders if Emily's mood is a reflection of the same frustration or if there are other, more pressing, more dangerous, things on her mind. He does his best to coax her out of her head and whatever has her so distracted, but he's not sure how successful he is. Even though he sees her make the effort, he has the sense there's something he doesn't know. While they walk on the beach, dine by the ocean and dance in the sand he feels a reserve that hasn't been there before. He struggles to put his finger on it, to put a name to it, then he'll blink and it'll be gone and she's Emily, there in his arms, smiling at him, laughing with him.

He loves it here, he loves her here. They drink fruity tropical concoctions and he tastes the salt of the ocean on her skin, the sweet pineapple on her lips. He feels romantic and he's doing his best to be light and charming, though he'd originally had plans to begin wearing her down about joining her wherever she lives. But the unexpected tension riding her shoulders and the extra minute it takes her to relax into his embrace make him decide to back-burner that plan.

When they make love the night before they're supposed to leave, she clings and grasps. There's something needy and a little desperate in her touch that hasn't been there before. Dave soothes her, with words, with kisses, with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He's as gentle as he can be as he takes her up and up, expecting her to relax into it, but she just gets more tense. When she finally lets go and lets herself come, it's like watching a mirror shatter and fall and it's nothing, it's something, it's everything for him to let himself shatter and fall to earth with her.

He wraps her up, skin on skin, arms around her body, his legs tangling with hers, so close a beam of light couldn't find its way between them. He whispers nonsensical things against her hair, into her neck, lets the words of comfort and love slide over her skin and press against the dark.

When he opens his eyes the next morning, he's unprepared for the sight of Emily, already dressed, zipping her bag. He frowns and looks out the window; the sun isn't even fully up yet. He'd actually thought both of their flights were mid-afternoon. "Morning," he says, probably a little too sharp, but he likes surprises even less these days than he ever has.

Emily turns around without meeting his eyes and he curses himself; he's missed it, whatever it is that's put that look of pain and guilt on her face. He braces himself for whatever fight they're about to have and moves to a sitting position.

"We can't do this anymore."

He'd been shot once, a long time ago; he'd been wearing a vest, but the impact of the bullet had knocked him on his ass, robbed him of his breath, felt like a giant redwood was being jammed into his solar plexus.

This feels worse.

"What?" He knows what she said; knows the meaning of each of the five words, both singularly and in that particular arrangement, so he doesn't really need for her to repeat any of the words or the statement. What he means by that particular inquiry is _What do you think is going on here that you can make that announcement and think I will abide by your decision?_

And though he suspects she knows what he means, she repeats it anyway. "We can't do this anymore." Finally, she looks up at him, meets his eyes (hers so sad and serious), "We can't see each other while Ian Doyle is out there. It's too much risk."

"That's it?" He can hear the incredulity and fury in his own voice and he doesn't bother to tell himself to calm down.

"That's all there is." Her voice is flat, the statement is simple. She slides the strap of her bag over over her shoulder.

He is _pissed_.

"You don't get to just make these decisions." He shoves a hand through his hair.

"Yes," she says carefully. "Yes, I do. The whole purpose of this-" she makes a gesture in the air, as if there's no word that fits the situation she finds herself in and she's hoping to find one hovering in the air somewhere just above and to the right of her temple, "-is to keep everyone safe, then these trips are endangering that."

He gives a brief thought to being naked, but it doesn't stop him from tossing back the covers and surging to his feet. "Bullshit. If you really felt that way, then you wouldn't have let me know in the first place."

Her spine straightens and her stance widens, it's the same one he's seen her use in the field and at the range and he manages to brace himself before she fires, words instead of bullets. "That was a mistake."

There are a thousand things he wants to respond with, ranging from "Fuck you" to "Don't be ridiculous" but she's already at the door.

"Emily..." His voice is sharp and strangled, something between rage and terror.

She pauses for half a second, but doesn't turn around. "I love you." But her tone is cold.

And then she's gone.

Even he's not self-assured enough to chase her through the hotel naked, so he searches for his jeans, finally finding them on the far side of the room, and shoves his legs into them, cursing when he pinches a bit of wayward skin with the zipper, but he doesn't stop to nurse his wounds. He grabs a t-shirt, pulling it over his head as he bolts out of the room.

There's a housekeeper quietly sweeping the parquet hall and another with a cart collecting room service trays, but no Emily. He runs for the elevator, but the doors are closed and he can't tell where it is in its journey, so he heads down the stairs, bare feet slapping against the textured concrete, descending four flights faster than he's ever chased an unsub, emerging into the quiet lobby breathing hard. He sees her dark head disappear into a cab out in the hotel driveway and he pushes towards the front doors, but the cab is accelerating away as he breaks into the morning air.

The doorman looks at him inquiringly, but there are no other waiting cabs and he has no doubt that if this was her plan from the beginning, then, he knows by the time he retrieved his wallet and his shoes and managed to get to the airport, she would already be airborne.

He snarls a violent curse at the tropical morning and slowly heads back to his room.

He walks to the elevator slowly, pauses before deliberately pushing the button for their-his-floor. The elevator ride is ponderous and when he finally disembarks, he moves like the slow creep of winter down the hall. It takes a minute to remember he doesn't have his key and he has to ask the housekeeper to let him into the room. She gives him an odd look, but doesn't say anything as she opens the door for him.

Dave stands in the middle of the room, lips pursed and fists clenched so tightly his knuckles begin to hurt. Heaving a large exhale, he unclenches his fists and wiggles his fingers. He reminds himself to keep breathing and sits on the bed. There's no sense to be made of his jumbled thoughts, so after an hour of staring into space, he shakes himself, gets up, and takes a long, hot shower, letting the water wash over him and ground him. He's not in any particular hurry as he dresses and begins packing with measured deliberation.

He makes it to the airport well in advance of his flight, but there are no earlier departures, so he simply sits and waits, brain deliberately switched off, all the coming and goings around him neutral, meaningless white noise. When he finally boards the plane, he purposefully ignores the woman in the seat beside his. He's aware his mother is likely spinning in her grave at how rude he's being, but he can't relate to another human being and not remember what happened this morning, how Emily had looked, what she had said, how she had sounded.

It's a direct flight and by some miracle, there's no traffic to speak of so it's still light when he gets home. He's methodical as he unpacks: jeans and underwear in the hamper, shirts in the bag to go to the cleaners. He leaves his toiletries in his bag and repacks. He's always made it a habit to repack his go bag as soon as he gets home, a lesson he learned early on at the BAU. At least once a year they get called out on a case when they've just gotten home. When he's repacked, he takes the bag downstairs and puts it in the backseat of the car, ready and waiting for the next call out.

Then he pulls a garbage bag from under the kitchen sink. He starts at the cabinet where he keeps the coffee, reaching in the back for the bag of mocha java beans that were Emily's favorite. He'd held on to them after her funeral, long after they would be considered fresh, just because it was Emily and the more things he had of hers...well, he hadn't ever analyzed it. As the coffee hits the bottom of the bag, he hears the spill and skitter of several beans escaping their bag. The next cabinet holds the crystal and slides his hands past heavy cut highball glasses and hefty water goblets to two delicate long stems, made from some of the thinnest glass he's ever seen. She'd brought them with an expensive bottle of red as a gift the first time she'd come to dinner. He hears them shatter against each other as they drop to the bottom of the bag.

The gourmet chocolate in the back of the pantry is next. There are just a few pieces left; she'd said it was her guilty pleasure. He grits his teeth against the memory of the chocolate in her hand, how she'd let it soften against the heat of her palm, then drew circles around her own nipples with the melting chocolate. The broken glass in the bottom of the bag tinkles as he tosses the handful of foil wrapped candy in.

Next, he moves to the bookshelves in the Great Room. A well worn paperback copy of _Cat's Cradle_ and a hardback edition of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe_ land inside the garbage bag with a _thunk_. Three paperback science fiction novels by the same author follow the Vonnegut and Adams. He throws in an entire notepad with scribbles in Emily's handwriting that appears to be part of a recipe for a Bailey's Irish Cream Cheesecake on the top sheet.

Going to the end table, he slides open the drawer and pulls out a bottle of red nail polish; even though she'd always kept her fingernails short and she'd even been chewing on them before everything went down with Ian Doyle, he has many fond memories of Emily sitting on the couch in various contortions with a pinched look of concentration on her face as she'd painted her toenails.

There are no photographs of the two of them, framed or otherwise. There isn't even a single one of her; a concession he supposes to the fact that even before everyone thought she'd died, they had been sharing the secret of them. But all of the time between her funeral and meeting her in Savannah he'd treated all of the little things she'd left behind as treasures, the archeological findings of her presence in his life. He'd left everything where she'd left it the last time she was here and in the months following her death, when he would see one, he would remember all over again the little moments that made up their lives together.

Systematically, he goes through the downstairs tossing items into the garbage bag: an empty CD case, an emery board, the jacket hanging in the coat closet, an expensive pen she'd given him before they even became lovers.

Then he moves upstairs, jerking open "her" drawer in his dresser. Even though he knows everything had been put away clean, the scent of her wafts up from the sleep pants, tank tops and lone pair of socks and nearly knocks him over. He turns his head, takes a deep breath and lets the feeling of being surrounded by her pass. Then, gritting his teeth, he scoops everything from the drawer and drops them unceremoniously into the bag. The red silk tie from his closet follows as he tamps down on the memory of her wearing the tie, and nothing else, to bed.

Nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. If there is a memory associated with any particular item, hers or his, it goes in the bag. He feels merciless as he takes each item from it'splace and throws it away. As he moves into the Master Bath he's moving on auto-pilot, grabbing and tossing, grabbing and tossing, barely noticing what each item is, just that it's hers, until his hand closes around the glass of a cosmetic bottle.

The cool weight of the frosted glass against the skin of his palm makes him look down and he stops. It's a half empty bottle of facial moisturizer and he remembers standing in this room, mornings and nights, getting ready for the day or getting ready for bed, talking to her as she did the same. How many times had he seen the way she'd carefully placed the goop on her fingers, then slowly massaged it into the skin of her face and neck, all while talking to him about how Hotch was doing, if Han had, in fact, shot first, about the moral implications of waterboarding, or if she really had seen Erin Strauss checking out Derek Morgan's ass.

He's not sure how it happened, but he finds himself on the floor of the bathroom, clutching the bottle in his hand.

It's only the sounds of his choking gasps bouncing off the shower tiles that lets him know he's crying.

"Fuck it," he growls behind a sob, but he can't seem to make himself let go of the bottle.

The tears fade eventually and still he sits on the bathroom floor, revolving the bottle slowly in his hand: front to side to back to side to front.

Things had always come so easily to him; he thinks of his mother shaking her head in fond exasperation. _Lucky in everything but love, my Davey._Truth is, though he's been smart, made some good choices and has a few skills, he has had more than his fair share of good fortune. But he's not sure luck or the lack of it has anything to do with the failure of his marriages or every other relationship. That, he knows has more to do with making poor choices coupled with selfishness and ego. But nothing had ever felt more like good luck than the morning he'd first awakened with Emily Prentiss in his arms. The day he'd found out she was alive? That was like winning a lottery he didn't know he'd bought a ticket for. Every minute he's spent with her has been a gift and he won't, simply can't, accept, that this is how it ends.

The cold from the tile floor is seeping through the denim of his jeans and his right hip is starting to protest the extended sojourn on the floor, but he doesn't move; he just holds the bottle in his hand and thinks.

When the light has diminished and the room is made up of shadows and darkness, the sound of his cellphone's ring moves him from his fugue. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket and glances at the screen. A phantom of a smile touches his mouth when he sees who the caller is. Pushing the _Answer_button, he brings the phone to his ear.

"Rossi."

"Oh, Rossi, good. Good." Garcia sounds a little rattled. "Can we...I don't know how to...look...are you busy? Can we meet somewhere? For a cup of coffee or a beer or something?"

"Sure," he says, a little slow, a little puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No. Well, no, not really, but..." He can practically hear her searching for the right word. "A couple of things with the subject have changed...like he's back here...I mean here, here and...and...someone else is looking for him. Someone you know."

Neither of those is a real surprise. If Doyle got any kind of a lead on where Declan is, he'd be back in the States in a minute. And if Derek Morgan hasn't been looking for Ian Doyle this whole time, then Dave is willing to turn in his credentials. "Tonight?"

"Yes, please," she says, sounding relieved.

"You name the place," he says genially. "But can you look something up for me?"

Evidently just agreeing to meet is enough to have Garcia feeling more Garcia-like, since her next words are back to their usual perky hyperbole. "Absolutely, oh best of the best! You have but to name it; I live to serve."

"It's a little red research." He grips the bottle in his hand, squeezing it as though he were squeezing Emily's fingers. "Hopefully, the last piece you'll ever have to do."

For the second time in an hour, Dave allows himself a break. There's a rock, or maybe it would be considered a boulder, that is more than adequate to rest his backside on, so he drops his pack and sits.

He's willing to bet he's in better shape than the vast majority of fifty-five year old men; chasing unsubs and trying to hold his own in the company of Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner have seen to that. Also, he's been an avid sportsman for the majority of his adult life: hunting, fishing, golf. Hell, he's still a force to be reckoned with on the softball field when they're home long enough to participate in the Bureau's league.

But he's having trouble catching his breath at the moment and all he's doing is _walking_.

True, he's walking up a _mountain_and the altitude is quite a bit different than what he's used to in northern Virginia or, for that matter, what he's experienced when he's been in the Rockies. Still, he's a little put out that a little thing like the atmosphere is impacting him at all. He wants to get where he's going and having to go slower was not in his plan.

He'd grumble about it, but there's no one around to listen. He snorts to himself as he removes his pullover and uses the sleeves to tie it around his waist. Though it's cooler here than at home, the sun and the walking have warmed him enough that he's comfortable in his shirt.

It's a beautiful day, but he hasn't seen any other hikers for the last forty minutes and no cars at all, even though the path runs beside the road. But it's not the most populated area, so that's not really surprising.

When he feels sufficiently rested, he looks at his notes and the map he'd brought, English translations scribble along the French printing, and nods to himself. It shouldn't be too much further. Less than an hour, probably. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the rock and steps back on the path.

Thirty-eight minutes later he sees the pyramid of rocks and stones he'd been told to look for. The gate is just beyond that; it's old but sturdy, metal bands and wooden beams reinforcing each other. There are two chains with large padlocks adorning the gate and a weathered metal sign that reads _Aucune Intrusion_. One lock, the one linking the chain around the gate's post to the fence post, is ancient, pocked with rust and dented; the other, locking the gate's hasp and catch mechanism, is much newer, speckled with dirt but not weathered.

He studies the track beyond the gate; it's rutted, mostly dirt with a sparse scattering of gravel. Whatever vehicle was used beyond the gate would either have to have one hell of a suspension system or none at all.

The gate is far too high to easily climb, and the fence on either side is topped by barbed wire. But he's come prepared.

He sets his pack down and unzips the front pocket, taking out a small cloth roll. Pulling the tie, he unfurls the cloth, revealing the set of picks he's owned since he was a teenager and he and Ray Finnegan were on their way to becoming pretty decent criminals. Thank God for the judge that gave David Rossi the choice between the military or jail time, he thinks; the Marines were probably the only thing that kept him from fully falling into that life.

The need for warrants aside, the ability to pick a lock without detection has helped him more than once in his time with the Bureau. It's a useful skill and even rusty, he's pretty good at it. The new lock clicks open in less than a minute. The older lock is a little sticky and takes almost three minutes. If he had a can of WD-40, it would be a lot quicker, he thinks, but there's no real hurry. There's no one around to wonder what he's up to but he wants this part to be over.

Before he moves the chains he stands back and takes a picture with his phone; there's no point in advertising that anything has been tampered with. Once the chains are unhooked the gate swings open easily, with not even the smallest squeak, despite the age of the hinges. It does take awhile to maneuver the chains and locks _just so_, working and adjusting, inch by inch, coaxing the chains and scraping his knuckles and wrist in the narrow gaps between the posts and the gate.

When he feels reasonably confident that things are back as he found them, he shoulders his pack and begins the final leg of his journey. He doesn't walk on the track, but beside it; he doesn't want to take the chance of leaving any footprints.

Twenty minutes later, a weathered cabin comes into view. His first instinct is to increase his speed, but he makes himself stop and pull out his binoculars, surveying the cabin and the two structures beyond. The smallest building is what appears to be some sort of shed and beyond that is a barn. There is no sign of life or movement, but he waits for a long time just to be sure.

Of course, there's no way to be one hundred percent sure. How many times has he had to learn that over the past six months?

But, when he's as sure as he can reasonably be, he resumes his journey toward the cabin, albeit a little slower and more cautiously this time. Still, there's no shout questioning his identity or his intent, no crack of a gunshot nor any other indication that anyone has seen his approach.

He makes it to the porch of the cabin without incident and knocks on the door. There's no answer, but he hadn't really expected there to be. He tries the door handle but, of course, that was futile. He studies the locks; they're relatively recently installed, high quality. Not impossible to pick, but damned near. Shrugging his pack off his shoulders, he walks the length of the porch, studying the cabin and the front window. The caulk around the window frame is fresh, not a few hours old fresh, but much fresher than one would expect on an uninhabited fifty-year-old cabin. Dave gives an experimental tap and, hearing a solid _thunk_, knows it is bullet-proof and not susceptible to a glass cutter.

Snorting a little, he mumbles "Figures" to himself and hops down off the end of the porch. With long strides, he rounds the exterior of the cabin, noting the same new-looking windows on the right side and the rear. At the back of the cabin is a plot of land marked out by stacked stones with overturned earth, but other than some overgrown thyme along the garden wall, there's no visible plant life that he can see. There is no back door to the cabin and the left side is taken up primarily by a large chimney.

The barn is locked up nearly as tight as the cabin and what he had originally taken as a shed is actually an outhouse. Neither is likely to house a spare key, he knows.

Sighing, he moves back around front and climbs back onto the porch, bending over, studying the locks. The knob should be no problem but the deadbolt is going to be a marathon. An hour later, he's kneeling, his pullover providing at least a little cushioning between the weathered boards of the porch and his very sore knees, as he turns the picks inside the lock, closing his eyes to feel each tumbler and groove.

About an hour and a half in, he takes a break, wiping his sweating forehead against the arm of his t-shirt. He leaves his picks braced in the lock, holding his place amongst the workings so he doesn't lose the progress he's made when he comes back. He sits with his back to the cabin wall and looks out over the gently rolling land, sipping the last of his water.

It's very pretty here. Beautiful, really. He definitely sees the appeal. Of course, he has a cabin just outside of Little Creek-it's hardly a mountain meadow, but certainly closer than his current surroundings to the urban settings of the world's capitals. He could definitely imagine living out a full life here.

The sun is moving toward the horizon, so he stops his nature study and heaves his aching self back up and over to the door. Picking one of these things on his knees was a bastard, picking one of these on his knees while trying to hold a flashlight would be a nightmare.

It turns out he does need the flashlight for the last set of tumblers, but since he spends most of the time "feeling" his way rather than looking, it's not too important that the light be steady, so angled in his mouth works just fine.

When everything finally clicks, he stands on tense legs and takes a breath, pressing his back against the edge of the cabin wall to the left of the cabin door. A booby-trap is not out of the question.

With painful and deliberate slowness he turns the knob, listening intently for any noise, a click or a hum, anything that might indicate something out of the ordinary, but he hears nothing. The tension in the knob feels normal, but that doesn't mean there's not something rigged to it. Still, he's not going to make any progress standing outside with his back against the wall; he pushes inward and steps further aside.

There's nothing. No explosion, no gunshot, no whizzing of knives or arrows, no drop of wood. Nothing.

His knees go weak and he slumps against the wall. Dave breathes in deeply and listens to his heart thump. He hadn't realized exactly how tense he had been until now. He breathes through the release of adrenaline, breathes through the shakes, breathes through the hammering heart and when he feels something close to normal, he walks through the cabin door.

Everything looks strange in the circle of his too-bright flashlight. He uses the light to locate two lanterns. He leaves an old-fashioned kerosene alone for the time being and uses the other, a modern camping lantern with a halogen bulb powered by batteries. While it's not bright enough to illuminate everything, it gives him a good view of the interior.

The cabin is essentially one large room; the wall with the chimney is all stone and has both a fireplace and a potbellied stove. There's a bed in the far corner of that wall, positioned, no doubt, to absorb the greatest heat from the radiant stones in the winter. He lets the light sweep over the rest of the room: a dresser with a wash bowl, a worn leather armchair, an aged sofa, several bookcases (overflowing), a butter churn, a table and two ladder-back chairs. He takes a few cautious steps inside, but eventually determines everything is safe. Time to explore more in the morning.

When he brings his pack in from the porch, the flashlight gleams on something metal under the kitchen table and he sees the staple and hasp of a door in the floor. Probably a root cellar, but he's not going to even think about looking down there until the sun is up tomorrow. For now he makes sure the staple is in place over the hasp and shoves the straight end of the fireplace poker through as a security measure.

He helps himself to a bottle of water he finds on the kitchen counter and pulls a protein bar and some beef jerky from his pack. He throws himself in the leather armchair and consumes his dinner as he studies the interior in a more leisurely fashion. The furnishings are obviously old, but sturdy. There's a mix of camping and survival gear around the room, an odd mix of the antique and ultra-modern; while some of it looks as if it predates the cabin, other items look like they came from the newest edition of a camping catalog. But there's very little in between.

It's a little earlier than he'd usually consider calling it a day. but jet lag and his hike have gotten the better of him. And it's not like there's a lot to keep him entertained at the moment. He bolts the door, kicks off his shoes and eases himself onto the bed; he's surprised at just how comfortable the mattress is. He's spent a lot of the last thirty years on a lot of different hotel mattresses, so he's sure he could sleep anywhere, but it's nice to find such a good one when he hadn't expected it.

Turning his head on the pillow, he inhales. The linen is freshly laundered with no lingering scent of the bed's last occupant. For the first time since Penelope Garcia slid a piece of fuschia notepaper with her purple looping script across a Starbuck's table to him, Dave doubts himself. Understandable, his innerprofiler reassures; he'd been making plans and doing research and preparing for the trip. He's been going on a hunch and determination since that moment; there hasn't been time for doubt. But here, in the utter silence of the cabin on a mountain on a continent different from the one he woke up on two days ago, he lets it flood over him.

_There is evidence,_ he reasons. _Could be a coincidence,_the voice of doubt taunts.

He breathes deeply.

"I'll give it a week," he says aloud.

And he sleeps

It's late afternoon on the fourth day when he hears the distinctive rush and growl of a motorcycle coming up the track.

He'd seen several in the village closest to the cabin and a few on the mountain road leading up to the cabin, mostly the steady chuff of Peugeots along with the occasional scream of a Ducati. This, he thinks, drawing from his limited experience, is one of the latter.

He wants to leap off the sofa, but makes himself stay where he is, stretched out against the ancient leather, book in his hands. He hears the crunch of sturdy footwear on the path to the door, a sure tread on the step outside, then a pause and a low creak of someone taking a cautious step onto the porch.

When a leather-clad, helmeted figure bursts through the door, gun in hand, he thinks maybe he should have hit the floor instead of staying on the sofa.

Somehow, despite the hammering in his chest, he manages to sound relatively cool as he holds up the cookbook he'd been studying. "Just brushing up on my zupa di pesce."

Slowly, the gun lowers and is placed on the table. The helmet comes off and Emily is blowing out an explosive breath. "Damnit, Rossi, I could have shot you." She throws the helmet, none too gently, into the armchair and barks, "I _almost_shot you."

Dave swings his legs off the sofa so he's in a sitting position. "That would have been a very bad ending to a pretty good plan." He tries to sound unconcerned, but his heart is beating so hard he can't tell how he sounds. It's not almost being shot; that's happened to him plenty of times before. Also, he's aware of Emily's skill with a firearm and her reaction time; she might be worried she would have shot him, but he isn't.

What does have his heart thumping and his breathing so loud he can hear it is, simply, Emily.  
>Emily, standing there in blue jeans and black leather, looking every bit as though she might be reconsidering whether to shoot him or not. Emily, who, less than two weeks ago, told him she couldn't see him anymore. Emily, who everyone thinks is dead. Emily, who essentially walked out on him, twice.<p>

Emily, who he loves more than he ever thought it possible to love anyone.

Emily, who, evidently, is not in tune with his thoughts or feelings at all at the moment, as she seems to be on a tirade of epic proportions, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping.

"Rossi, what the _hell_?" The look she gives him is a combination of acid and steel and he doesn't give a flying fuck. He just crosses his arms and decides to take it on the chin until she calms down.

"Pretty. Good. Plan." Each slow, succinct word drips with quiet venom. "You think me almost shooting you is a pretty good plan? Then do I have a _great_ plan for you." The level of her voice and the cadence of her words are both rising. She throws her arms in the air and her hair whips across her face with the force of her movements. "Goddamnit, Dave." She's looking as if she's trying to stop herself from hitting him. "You couldn't just leave it alone could you? _You_have to have the last word, don't you?"

Her lips are tight and her eyes are narrow as she swings around and spews rage at him. "You could have been killed. By me or Doyle. You could have lead them straight to me." Emily makes a noise that is somewhere between a shout and a groan.; then, she releases a breath and pushes back her hair with one hand. "You hard-headed, egotistical, stubborn _asshole_. What is wrong with you? Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

He's had a lot of time to think all of the same things, even ask himself the same questions, though, admittedly with fewer swear words. And he only has one answer. "I love you."

Emily's eyes close as though she's felt a sudden wave of pain and her shoulders slump. It takes a minute, but she shakes her head and opens her eyes to look at him. When she speaks, the rage is gone from her voice but it is quietly tinged with sadness. "Dave. Love is not magic."

"I know that." Finally, he stands and takes a step toward her. "I know it's not magic, but, Jesus, Emily, it's still a miracle."

A look he's not sure how to interpret spasms across her face and then she shakes her head again. "Dave..."

"Listen," he says quickly, taking a step forward. "Just listen. I know you think you're doing what's best for me, trying to keep me safe. But. Emily, you can't just keep making these decisions about _us_ without _me_."

For a second she looks simultaneously stricken and stunned. "Dave." She clears her throat and tries again. "Dave. I'm not trying to be cruel, but what makes this time any different? What makes this relationship worth risking your life for when the others weren't worth risking a book tour for?"

That is cruel. And true of his last two marriages, but he's not going to let her sidetrack him into anger. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bottle of moisturizer he had found in his bathroom the night he had tried to purge his home of her presence.

She looks down at the bottle, then up at his face, then back to the bottle. "Moisturizer? A twenty dollar bottle of moisturizer caused you to risk your life, fly to France and hike up a mountain to my grandfather's cabin where I might or might not show up?" Shaking her head, she loops her hair behind her ear. "Rossi, I assure you Europe has adequate skin care products to meet my needs." It's her best _you are such a moron_drawl that he can't help but smile. "Why would you put yourself in the line of fire to bring me a bottle of moisturizer?"

He feels the cool glass in his palm and he looks at her face; he remembers what she looked like the day he'd walked back into the BAU. "These last months you've been so concerned about your scars and I've tried to tell you I don't care about them. And I don't; other than hating the pain you had to go through. What I realized I do care about are your wrinkles."

"What?" Her tone is incredulous and edging toward anger again. He takes one last step toward her and folds the bottle into her hands, holding it there with both of his.

"I want to know where every one of the lines on your face comes from; the tiny ones you have now and the ones you're going to have in five years, ten years, twenty years." He pulls her into his arms; her body is still tight but her face has eased from angry and shocked to soft and questioning. "Whether it's the worry lines from Ian Doyle or the laugh lines from Penelope Garcia. I want it all. Everything that makes you who you are, that's what I want to know, that's what's going to keep me in."

"You idiot." She sounds a little breathless, as if she doesn't know whether to be exasperated or tender.

Dave has never been one to leave anything to chance. "This situation is fucked up. I know that. It's dangerous. I know that, too." He rests his forehead against hers and even gives her a little smile, even though he's never been more serious. "I am all in and you are not shutting me out. If you run again, I will find you again and I will be much louder and more obvious about tracking you down."

Emily looks at him, really, looks at him. Dave sees her own pain along with doubt and weariness. She _wants_, he can see that. She wants him but she wants him to be safe. She wants to be with him, but she doesn't trust the universe or God or whatever it is she believes in to let it happen.

He lets her look; he lets her see. He lets her see how serious he is; he lets her see his own doubt and fear and beyond that, he lets her see him and his love for her. There's a moment when he sees her see it; that he isn't going away, that he knows the risks and he's willing to take them. Her eyes begin to shine and her lip quivers, just a little.

"You would, too." Her expression is grave, but her tone is full of fondness and hope. "You know I can't come home."

He nods. "Yeah, I know. And I won't put you in danger by insisting on being with you here. But you're not shaking me off, Emily." He meets her eyes with a serious look of his own. "Never again."

Her eyes are wide and maybe a little wet when she nods and then he feels her begin to soften in his arms. "You're still a hard-headed, egotistical, stubborn asshole."

There's no arguing that. "You forgot fussy and anal retentive."

Emily barks out a laugh and lets herself melt completely against him. "I love you."

Dave presses a kiss against her hair. "And that's what gives this story a happy ending."

FIN

Lyrics _The Story_

All of these lines across my face  
>Tell you the story of who I am<br>So many stories of where I've been  
>And how I got to where I am<br>But these stories don't mean anything  
>When you've got no one to tell them to<br>It's true...I was made for you

I climbed across the mountain tops  
>Swam all across the ocean blue<br>I crossed all the lines and I broke all the rules  
>But baby I broke them all for you<br>Because even when I was flat broke  
>You made me feel like a million bucks<br>You do  
>I was made for you<p>

You see the smile that's on my mouth  
>It's hiding the words that don't come out<br>And all of my friends who think that I'm blessed  
>They don't know my head is a mess<br>No, they don't know who I really am  
>And they don't know what<br>I've been through like you do  
>And I was made for you...<p>

All of these lines across my face  
>Tell you the story of who I am<br>So many stories of where I've been  
>And how I got to where I am<br>But these stories don't mean anything  
>When you've got no one to tell them to<br>It's true...I was made for you


End file.
